


You're Ashes I'm Ashes

by Lenap



Series: Ashes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Case Fic, Curse Breaking, Curses, Developing Relationship, Illustrated, M/M, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Possessive Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Sherlock, Translation from Russian, magical AU!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:11:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenap/pseuds/Lenap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story about ex-Healer John Watson and dark mage Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello-hello, my dears!
> 
> NEW UPDATE! 
> 
> I finally finished this story in Russian, all 16 chap of it.  
> I rewrote first chap to accommodate my plot. And now translated it into English. So enjoy new vertion.  
> And this part has only pre-slash as I love slow build of relation (eahh…. That’s my kryptonite). But now I’m thinking of adding some mystrade in the mix, but even now I see it with a lot of angst so really don’t know how this will turn out in the end.
> 
> NOW you can read some facts about the whole universe for better understanding of the text!
> 
> Enjoy yourself)))!!!

The rows of books were dappled with colored spines. John looked around thoughtfully and sighed deeply. He liked the smell of old books. It reminded him of his parents’ home library; the same smell of paper, leather and old wood with a light touch of dust. Only now memories of that smell mingled with the barely perceptible high notes of ink.

John centered himself. He did not come here to indulge in memories of his childhood. If not for the sudden encounter with his old friend in the park, John would have never had the opportunity to try to look for answers in the books, stored behind the walls of his former university. And he had not planned to share with Mike Stamford circumstances of his life, everything happened by itself. And maybe he just wanted to talk to somebody.

Of course he saw Mike’s sympathy and participation, and though they were not particularly close in their student years, John was not in a position not to use it in his favor.

The red brick walls of their alma mater were glowing with the usual soft yellow light visible only to those who knew what to look at. The rare student respectfully greeted Stamford and occasionally threw wary glances John’s way. Well, even if they could see something strange in him, he never had even the slightest chance to pass by the Guards without outside help.

Mike took him to the Library through familiar bright corridors, through floors lit by conventional electricity, bypassing the stone statues of Guards, not allowing them to touch him with their cold fingers, for which John was very grateful to him. He did not know how they could respond to his magic, and certainly was not eager to learn.

The Library was empty, yet in the far corner, leaning over the weighty volumes stood, by John’s standards, a young man.

He did not look like the teacher, and especially the student. If not for Mike, who suddenly froze and seized him by the hand, he would not even pay any attention to that person.

“Do you know this mage?”

“This is Sherlock Holmes.” Mike looked at him over his glasses. "He specializes on... Let’s say, all sorts of curses. And not only on them."

Pale skin, dark hair, older than he thought. Expensive clothes, the shoes obviously cost more than what he could afford to spend in several months. All in all, the appearance and behavior of Sherlock Holmes radiated wealth and power. Within the gray walls of the University, surrounded by old tomes and scrolls, Holmes looked surprisingly appropriate. And John had a feeling that he had already heard that name somewhere before.

"So he is a Healer?" There was a chance that acquaintance with such a mage would be beneficial for him.

"Not at all. Holmes knows Anatomy, and he is a first-class Alchemist. Although it does seem that healing was never systematically studied by him. I would say that he is obsessed with elemental magic, and it's positively callous!"

"So what does your mysterious friend do for a living? I always thought that a very limited number of people have access to the Library. Does he teach? "

"Oh, thank the Gods no! The poor students wouldn’t have survived that, never mind his fellow teachers! Sherlock Holmes is consulting mage."

"Consulting?"

"Yes, and loves to repeat that he invented the job."

"Huh, never heard of him."

"You were out of London far too long, so I’m not surprised that you know nothing about him. Well, he has provided a few invaluable services for the University, and so was granted the privilege to use any of its facilities without limitation."

"Wow!" whistled John. He quickly looked around, but their whispering did little to disturb unwavering gloomy silence of the reading room.

“My break will be over soon. You have a few hours, will it be enough? At this time, there is almost no one here, so feel free to search all you need.”

“Thank you, Mike. I really appreciate your help and support.”

“Do not mention that. At my place you would do the same. I'm sorry, I cannot help more. I hope you have not forgotten how the index works?”

“Even if I wish, I could not.”

John looked around a little confused. Clad in paper form, the knowledge and experience of many generations of magicians have not guaranteed that he will find the answers to any of his questions. If only he knew what to search for in this realm of wood, paper and dust, it would certainly facilitate his life.

He had no money to pay for services for the really talented and skillful Healer. John was not someone important and did not have any significant connections. Nothing. He just desperately wanted to fix something instead of waiting for the decision of the Ministry, that had chosen to put all sorts of spells on him and gave him a wretched apartment on the outskirts. And the worst part – the Ministry deprived him reasonably of the Permit (1).

While referring to a familiar system, John randomly chose books on Applied Alchemy, medicinal herbs and infusions, then naturally transferred to the books on the Curse and the Ritual of Purification. Perhaps, it was wise to start with them from the beginning and not waste time on the rest, but he needed to accurately rule out even a small chance that they could contain grains of useful information.

Pile of books on the near table grew at alarming proportions, and he had willed himself to stop, hoping to leaf through the most of them before Mike’s return. There was only one last section in the public domain left and he could finally sit reading.

He remembered why the name of Holmes seemed familiar to him. Remembered suddenly and, one can say, quite by accident while looking at battered volume "Rituals of Reading the Runes”. The book had wormed its way between the solid volumes of "Applied Demonology" and "Selection and Keeping of a familiar in a city apartment”. Living in a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of London meant not only low rent, lousy living conditions and questionable neighbors. But also the fact that John became an unwilling listener to most incredible gossip. The memories of several high-profile crimes resurfaced from the back of his mind. It was in connection with their investigation that the name of the dark mage was mentioned. The same mage who has never left his corner for all the time that John frantically wandered between the shelves.

John glanced for the last time at the book he held in his hands - "Meaning of Dreams". It was unlikely, that it would ever come in handy, so he returned it without any regret and looked around. That Sherlock Holmes was a practicing dark mage was as obvious as the fact that he, John Watson, was now able to walk only with enchanted cane. And it was not because of the strange aura, John just strongly believed his own experience and intuition. He has worked with plenty of dark wizards, now to be able to identify one of them at first sight. That Holmes practiced dark magic was clear even to a child - only a practitioner and also a very powerful magician could advise the Ministry of Magic, which always poorly perceived encroachment on its own monopoly.

Stamford’s return was a complete surprise to him. He only managed to write down the ritual of Reading Runes, as his former classmate wearily sat down across from him.

“I'm almost finished, just need to get everything back into place.”

“Oh, do not worry, students will put everything away. It is very convenient that Holmes is here, they will blame him as usual.”

“About Holmes .... Can you introduce us?” John decided not to miss the opportunity to be represented to this mage, no matter how old-fashioned it sounded.

Mike hesitantly nodded. They slowly as if he was hoping to delay the inevitable, came to the table, which was now littered with books, scrolls, even more than the table, which was left behind by John.

“Mister Holmes, may we have a bit of your attention?” Stamford sounded very formal and stiff. “This is my former classmates, John Watson.”

John involuntarily winced at the servile tone of his former classmate.

Gray eyes made him impulsively shiver and brace for an attack. But the attack never came. He was surprised at the ease with which this stranger made him nervous with just one glance. Tall, thin, but hard to understand what was hidden by the expensive suit: a leanness or sinewy muscle. John estimated his chances in fight quite unclear.

Intuition told him that he wouldn’t be lucky to exchange any courtesies. How strongly? Well, let’s just say John suspected Mr. Holmes did not even consider it necessary to bother himself with the usual rules of decorum.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry, what?” John turned to stare at Stamford, but his only response was a slight shrug. Mike looked as if he was only looking for an excuse to leave. Somewhere far-far away if possible.

“Afghanistan.”

In response he just heard a low murmur. Having lost all interest in him, Holmes had returned to reading the book in front of him, which he had carefully been studying before they came. It was an ancient manuscript with the rituals of Exhortation and Expulsion if John had not made a mistake in the interpretation of familiar characters.

“Well, I suppose that wasn’t too hard to guess.” John replied as if he had not been dismissed. Mike glanced at him in full horror. “Any person with observation skills, particular knowledge and rudiments of logical thinking could have guessed that. My military bearing and a cane probably gave me away.

Holmes looked at him again. John froze at the eye contact and put his weight to his uninjured leg, shifting his body into a fighting stance. It was incredible how one single look could provoke such a storm of conflicting emotions in him. The desire to escape while he could, as well as the excitement, challenge, and chill of fear all mixed with the threat of palpable danger and perplexity.

“Here you won’t find the information you need.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. You searched almost the entire library, but none of the selected books were looked through more than five minutes. And now you had no regrets leaving behind the unread stack, when the opportunity arose. So you did not find what you were looking for and did not think will find anything else in the rest.”

“If this is not here, then there is only one question - do you have what I need?”

“I don’t discuss work here.”

John, once again, has to settle for the contemplation of the other’s predatory profile. A few moments later, Holmes straightened and turned to Stamford who was standing quietly.

“Give me your phone, my battery is low.”

“Ah, I seem to have forgotten it downstairs in my coat.” Mike shrugged apologetically and wilted even more.

John had no choice but to get his mobile out of his pocket and give it to Holmes. The mage smoothly jumped from his chair and was next to him not two steps later; towering John with his rather high figure. John felt the intrusion to his personal space to be quite uncomfortable. He, like Stamford, desperately wanted to be as far away from this man as possible. And in an ideal world he would be able to solve this problem without the involvement of this man. Something was wrong here. John did not understand what it was, and that in itself was a very worrying sign. Usually, he could read aura in an instant. But Holmes had an aura like a smoky cocoon. John had never seen anything like it before, even in dark wizards.

Once the phone was casually returned, John was left with only one thing to do; watch as the mage dexterously put on the expensive coat and tied a scarf with finesse and grace. It was near the door that Holmes suddenly turned around to John and winked.

“The address is 221B Baker Street, tonight at eight and don’t be late. Mike, put all the books back where they belong.” With that he was gone.

John frowned and squeezed the handle of his cane with force.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to turn to this guy for help?” With every passing second the prospect of working with this strange mage seemed less and less attractive.

“You know, John, it’s your decision, but if anyone can help you in this town, it’s Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Homes alone. Also, he works legally.”

 

(1) - Permit on the use of magic, which is received by every trained mage, who passed the tests and was registered (usually for the chosen class).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW UPDATE:  
> Edited this chap because I also changed it in the Russian text. 
> 
> NOW you can read some facts about the whole universe for better understanding of the text!
> 
> I'm really happy with the illustration I made for this chap)) Look at all these details))
> 
> Read and comment. I really want to know what you think about this au)

 

The first thing he noticed was the endless network of magic runes on all visible surfaces. The walls, floor, furniture were covered with little glowing circles and signs. Elegant ligature throbbed with primal magic. If John did not know for sure, he would have decided that the house at Baker Street 221B was standing on the Source.

The amount of protection, security and outlet spells spoke about the incredible talent and strength of the magician, who inflicted them. And unlikely they have been created by Mrs. Hudson, though by first impression she was experienced, but a pretty mediocre witch. Well, if Holmes was a really powerful wizard, then he, John Watson, had a chance.

With Mrs. Hudson he got acquainted with when she finally let him in, after his long talk with the door lock, who did not want to knock first, and then knocked strange tune. He was desperate to get inside when the door suddenly opened and he was greeted by an elderly witch with low-luminous aura of a person at the sunset of life and magical powers. She kindly showed him inside while smiling little private smile. And if he was confused a bit by that he tried his best to look at ease.

John stood in the doorway, not daring to enter further. If he has properly read the runes on the doorjamb, uninvited guest could be thrown anywhere after even one step into the room. Although technically he had an invitation from a magician, who all this time watched him from the couch with mild curiosity, John decided not to risk it.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I can enter?”

“Just Sherlock, please. And yes, be my guest.”

As soon as he crossed the invisible line, wards began pulsing brighter. John uncertainly looked around. If not pay attention to the mess he was impressed. He had never seen so many artifacts collected in one place. Vaguely resembling a similar collection he had seen only twice in his life. Once - in the guarded museum in Dresden, and the second - in the darkened hut in Mongolia.  
He walked over to a pile of books stacked casually near a chair. It seemed that similar publications he met only in protected section of the London Library. And that was the most complete repository of ever created magical books. Although he could be biased. But in his defense, he could say that when it was possible, he did not visit some restricted section. First, there was no time, and then no longer a necessity. When John decided to become a Healer, he did not think that his abilities will extend far beyond the scope defined by the class.

Yet the more surprising then the rare books were the runes. He barely resisted the urge to touch glowing circles and swirls. Never before had John ever seen anything as much concise and perfect. He was awed and even did not try to hide it.

“Do you like what you see?”

“I.... I'm impressed. Amazing!” John gasped in admiration. 

“Thank you. Have a seat.”

John carefully measured the proposed chair, and the longer he looked at it, the less he liked what he saw. Under it on the floor throbbed not just a protective circle; the intersection of five pentagrams was truly dangerous. Once seated on the proposed char he risked to be captured in the Trap of Circles.

“Um ... I'd rather stand,” why this Holmes had to check his ability to see traps, John could only guess.

“Oh! Let's keep him!” laughed the unfamiliar voice.

John snapped and looked around in surprise. Human skull on the mantelpiece, before peacefully lying between ancient candelabra and a pile of books, now shone dim bluish glow. Apparently, the new voice belonged to him. Well, John was not even surprised; to some extent it met his expectations.

John poked his cane in the direction of the skull:

“And is this a real skull? You know, it’s very discourteously to say such things to a person, and even more - in his presence.”

Suddenly skull flashed with blue sparks and fell silent.

“Hmm ...” Holmes folded his hands in a prayer gesture under the chin, “Interesting.”

Surprisingly, John felt at peace with non-stop magic ripple around him. He expected to feel anxiety and worry. Due to his line of work he often had to encounter with a variety of dark wizards, and usually, it meant a lot of trouble. But this time it was somehow different.

Before the meeting, he brought some inquiries about this Holmes guy. Not many knew about him, more heard, but all flatly refused to talk about him. Well, from the reputation of a truly powerful dark wizard he did not expect less.

“I come to you privately”, said John, “I want this visit to be as discreet as possible. Particularly to the Ministry.”

“You have so much tracking spells on you that I wonder how you're still not jingle while walking. You can’t be a Healer. There must be some sort of mistake.”

Holmes suddenly rose; a coffee table with an unpleasant screech rode away, when the magician strode to John. They stood frozen in front of each other.

“And yet I’m the Healer,” he had to raise his head to be able to look into the magician's eyes.

“Any good?”

“Very good in fact.”

Holmes examined him with undisguised interest, probing the air around him with a searching look. John decided to try to see. But all two attempts that he dared to implement without attracting attention did not succeed. Space around Holmes was throbbing while thickening, but he still saw only a smoky cocoon.

“You won’t find any answers in the books.”

He himself knew that. John did not want to ignore the obvious, but even all his experience as a Healer could not help him deal with his own uncontrolled magic. He knew from the beginning that flipping through dusty old volumes would lead to nothing, but sitting and just waiting was not in his character. He had his own assumptions and theories, but no confidence if he was or right or not. 

“Is it a curse?”

“No. But a very near thing”

John was surprised; he thought until recently that it was a curse. Strange not definable, but still a curse. That was the main argument in his dispute between sanity and hope, or there would not be any reason for him to associate with a dark mage. Working with them always meant trouble.

In any case, if nothing else he could get answers to his speculations:

“Spell or Ritual?”

“Ritual,” Holmes, producing the impression of a man who loved listening to your own voice, now for obscure reason has decided to use monosyllabic answers.

“Are you able to help me?” sighed John.

“Yes.”

Unwavering confidence was pouring from a magician. Holmes suddenly stretched out his hand, but never touched.

“Your cane. It is very unusual. Rare tree, knob with carvings usually created in Central Asia. Most likely, a gift. If not for this thing, you would not even be able to walk ....” Holmes suddenly stopped talking.

If not for the old shaman that found him thrown to die in the midst of nowhere, he would not have even this dubious chance for salvation. To break the silence, John finally decided to address the delicate issue of payment.

“I really can’t give you much, but I’m skilled in crafting. And also a Healer. We can have a deal.”

“No.”

“You must have felt very strong artifact that I carry. I'll give it to you in exchange for your help.”

“And if you are truly any good you may have noticed that I do not need.” 

Of course, he noticed. It was hard not to pay attention to all the artifacts, amulets and crystals that produced wave power. With such a rich collection, as expected, John had no luck in offering the single powerful item he had.

And of course he knew where so obviously Holmes was leading.

“What can I offer to you then?” 

“Unpayable debt.”

John visibly paled. This was serious. After agreement, he risked becoming dependent to the magician, which he knew practically nothing about.

“Do all of your customers owe you this much?”

“No. Only the interesting ones.”

Holmes stepped closer. His close presence forced spells, that blocked his magic, pulse and tremble. It looked as if the mage was not familiar with the concept of personal space, but John did not come to educate him on this topic. Such close presence made the spells on him throb and tremble as if they were tested for strength.

“If the Ministry wanted you to be free of this curse you wouldn’t be standing here.... But they only put tracking spells and returned you to civilization. You light so bright. Nothing can put away this spark,” Sherlock whispered, leaning toward him. 

Gray eyes looked in his in fascination. John was ready to answer in agreement, when at the last moment caught himself in mid-sentence.

“I ag .... I .... I need to think,” John threw stupor and took a step back. It was too much to handle the towering presence of mage, who did not even try to look guilty about brought wraith. “I need time to think everything through.”

In fact, he had to decide only one thing: if he should believe Holmes and more - trust him with his life.

“John,” Holmes’s words caught him on the threshold. “Think about why in all the time of our conversation, you forgot that you can stand only with the help of a cane.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW UPDATE:  
> Also edited this chap, minor things, but still))
> 
> enjoy))
> 
> NOW you can read some facts about the whole universe for better understanding of the text!  
> _________________
> 
> UPDATE!  
> Now beted!!! by wonderful Illulian !!

Drip. Drip. Drip

John hated his flat with all the passion that remained in him. If he had a choice, he would never have stayed in this hole, which is mistakenly called flats. However, it was the only kind of place he could afford to rent on his pension. He was lucky to even have this after being considered missing for more than six months and then declared dead.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

No Matter what he did; despite how hard he tried with his limited abilities, the protection that he so patiently and painstakingly superimposed on the walls and shoddy door still blurred time after time. Erased by the magical imbalance of the dilapidated building; a place John even didn’t try to call his new home.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The old house was filled with memories of the past, which it generously resonated through a magic Echo for John. When his nightmares receded; leaving only emptiness and disappointment, there always came phantoms. They seeped through his useless defense, filling the room with a dark trembling smoke. And so every time afterwards, the ripple of an Echo erased all of his signs from all surfaces with finality.

John turned his head sideways to see dark clots slowly swirling along the walls, which then faded beige again as if they had never shone from his magic. The phantoms were attracted by a small Source with which John now never parted. The Artifact, which Holmes so easily refused to take and that John himself really cherished.

Drip. Drip. Drip

When listening to the heavy patter of water dripping had worn his patience thin, John forced himself to stir out of the slightly wet sheets and climb out of bed. The clock showed a miserable four am. He long ago waved goodbye to the notion of a goodnight’s sleep, so it made no sense to wait longer to start another monotonous day.

John swept the dark smoke with a wave of his cane, brushed down the remnants of clots clinging to his legs and went to the small kitchen. He almost didn’t sense an unpleasant tingling; only cold ran along his spine. The phantoms had nothing to take from him due to his now weak magical powers.

His neighborhood had no "pure" buildings. And there were no magicians living here of even medium strength. Although that did not mean that evil spirits had nothing to do in this part of London. Far from it; emotion and vitality are considered no less desirable to magic in terms of sustenance.

A dark presence felt at every turn, in every precarious basement, at each gateway. He had to deal with longing and sadness almost of each person he met. Even children have been infected by that indescribable doom that was to be found in people who have no hope in their life and future.

Today John had one of many of his required appointments to attend. As if someone else’s weak magic could help him. It was as if everyone had suddenly forgotten that until recently, he, John Hamish Watson, was a practicing Healer himself. Moreover, he knew much more beyond his selected class. That is why others incompetence not only irritated him, it drove him to fury.

And today he was met by a new Healer; a dark-skinned, pleasant woman; who seemed promising to him. Despite this fact, even with his disabilities, he clearly saw a weak magician; whose job now was to help him back to life in a magical society. John was so very tempted to ask what happened to Mr. Deilock, his former Healer. But he restrained himself. While not the most prestigious of positions for one such as his Class, the job was no less vital. That anyone would just quit such a post so languidly was surprising for John, especially now.

John had spent only three weeks in London, and already became tired of the indifference of the Ministry, and the incompetence of people worked with the least affluent stratum of society, to which he now belonged. And do not forget the Bureaucracy. Not to say that he hadn’t experienced it before; he met incompetence in various forms and guises over the years, only now it was strange to fully realize his helplessness.

“I read your profile .... Only family is a sister. Hmm ... Studied at the University. Extensive practice on three continents. Successful military career. You have an excellent track record.” The tone of his new Healer was difficult to read. John did not know if she was surprised or puzzled. “And you just thirty eight ... Intelligence - 110. Aggressiveness - 145, when the normal range is 90. Hmm .... Characteristics, control tests.... so, so.... your magic level is quite weak now, and it continues to drop. If this continues and there is even the slightest chance of imbalance, I'm afraid you will be Marked.”

John clenched cane as the only source of salvation. Familiar runes engraved on it dug into the skin of his palms. It was too early for him to sink in desperation. The worst thing that could happen to a magician in their world had not happened yet. And if John was lucky, this fate would over pass him. There was always Holmes with his unspeakable proposition. And if he had to choose between an unpayable debt and the prospect to live with the Mark and never be allowed to conjure for the rest of his life - the choice was obvious.

Twice in his life John had worked in the settlements of the Marked as a Healer. It was not the most pleasant experience. Without any doubt it was better to be the weakest mage than not to have even the faintest spark of magic. Another option was to become the Secessionist (1), but even the thought of that pained him. He was not ready to join the criminals and go underground.

“How do you find life in London after your return? You were a soldier and you need time to get used to civilian life.”

John gritted his teeth and turned to face the window.

“Everything is fine… Nothing really happens to me.”

That was both right and wrong at the same time. There was nothing of importance happening in his life. Only monotony mixed with the dissatisfaction of the whole situation. Really nothing happened of which he could tell the woman sitting across from him, and not get himself into trouble.

How could he tell her that the city of his wild youth in the 12 years of his absence had changed beyond recognition? He did not want to tell her how each time crossing roads he had to choose a new route due to the ever-changing magical Storms (2), which threatened to leave him entirely without power or transported to an unknown destination. How could he tell her about his despair at the infected houses, abandoned children and elderly he passed every day, but really had no means to help? He no longer had the strength, which could be shared. And the crumbs he now had left were only suited to disperse harmless evils and put up a weak protection. And while this little feat was enough for his neighbors, who didn’t even know such simple magic. The sad fact of the matter was that he could not to tell her where the last of his remaining strength was going.

Or that he cut off all ties with his sister and distant relatives who had not seen him as he was, or didn’t want to. He continued to live by his past accomplishments; not taking the fact that the curse had just radically changed his life. He would never be the same again.

How could he share all of this and did not sound like he was a child complaining?

“John, you have to talk to me. As your supervising Healer, I not only have to report to the Ministry, but also must appoint your Inspector and help with Registration. Soon it will be a month since you got back; there is no point in postponing this question. But I would like to make the decision after at least some progress.”

“I understand.”

Of course John agreed. He’d realized that that with his changed status he had to go through the Registry again. He tried to be practical and not to be consoled with the vain hope that even after lifting the curse he would be able to return to class of Healers. There was a vague chance that he could work as assistant in any hospital or clinic; with his experience and knowledge, much would be relevant.

“How much time do I have?”

‘Not long, I’m afraid. About three days. Two of your previous supervisors delayed the Registration.... But the circumstances of your return and change of the status weren’t … emmm… normal. Today we'll go through some more tests and I may be able to assign you additional time. I'm really worried about the drop in your magical powers.”

John chuckled to himself. Even in his current level, he could tell the difference between a simple fatigue; from overspending the power, and a leakage. He was embarrassed for his country and government, which did not seem to bother to provide good care for their most vulnerable citizens.

Regular tests did not show anything new or unexpected. Therefore, he had no reason to delay Registration any more. In two days time he was due for another visit to the Main Building of the Ministry of Magic. Last time he almost did not remember it, lost in the fog of fever, for which he was secretly grateful. He could only guess how he could respond to the all spells imposed on him when fully conscious.

His train of thought was interrupted by unexpected message received from an unknown number. As if sensing his hesitation, even through the distance between them, the only consulting dark mage asked:

Have you decided something already? SH

While many would find such persistence unnerving, John was not quite desperate enough to say yes to the rather insane condition Holmes’ required for payment. Although, he had to admit, the prospect of getting rid of the curse and regain a semblance of his former life was very tempting.

 

(1) - the Secessionist is colloquial form to determine the magicians who practice magic illegally, ie without a special permit from the Ministry of Magic. Typically, this path leads to a rapid and inglorious end;

(2) - Magical Storms - a phenomenon occurs mostly in densely populated urban areas, their nature is not fully understood. The reason for their occurrence is considered to be a clash of different elemental magic that are used while creating any spells, during the rituals, etc. Thus, it is believed that Storms arise because of the large concentration of various mages in one place.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW UPDATE:  
> Edited this one as well, only minor things.
> 
> Enjoy))
> 
> NOW you can read some facts about the whole universe for better understanding of the text!

Rune reading was not very fancy, yet it was highly effective. It turned out in the end that he did not waste time in the Library: at least something worthwhile came of that venture in addition to dubious acquaintance with Holmes.

From the depths of an old canvas bag John drew ritual candles and bowls. Necessary runes that were carefully made of wood were also extracted from the bag.

Everyday walks through a dull neighborhood, quite tedious he might add, had been a part of his exercise regime and finally brought results. John was lucky enough to stumble upon a place of nature in the territory of one of the abandoned houses. Greens had won a place to call home from the dirty brick walls and cracked asphalt, and now were pleasing to the eye with their emerald hue. Rare trees reached thin branches towards the sun, and John could not help but admire such tenacity.

This place immediately came to mind when he was holding a little shabby volume and idly flipping through the yellowed pages. It was an almost perfect site for the rite. He only had to impose some spells to scare small spirits and seek all the necessary ingredients. Re-registration after so many years did not warrant any change in his situation, so it would not hurt to try his luck in the rite and ask Destiny. And for this he had only two days left.

John carefully drew a plain pentagram on the ground. He then stuck candles on the edges and set the bowls. They splashed with clear water, blood of the caught rat and red wine. In the fourth he put honey of wild bees. The hardest part was not getting Holy Water, as it wasn’t that much out of his way to wander through a church, but the honey; the real stuff and not the pitiful excuse that was sold in Tesco. To get it he had to barter a luck amulet that he had made in Afghanistan, and now did not work for him.

In the middle he placed the big flat dish, throwing some soil on the bottom. After bowing in the four directions, John froze, only his lips began to move quickly. He asked for the blessing of the Norns of which, by Skuld (1), he wanted to be heard most of all. The blessing sign roused the air for but a moment, a portent that everything would go smoothly, and he would get his answers.

A small dagger with a burnt handle served him as the ritual knife. Long ago, dull metal flashed from the ashes of memory, he'd found it in a ruined shack on the outskirts of a broken house, drawing his attention with the shining of its small red semiprecious stones. He tenderly touched the black dents and made quick to ward off unwelcome thoughts. After the dagger followed other parts of the rite; a white falcon feather, the dried leaves of the datura-herb, and a yellowed wolf’s tooth. All this he found on the shelves of a witches stall at Camden Market.

In the morning John had looked out the window, and was met with heavy dark clouds that covered the sky; ready to explode their cold drops of rain. The understanding then came that it was the right day. Nature was ready to wash gray houses and the streets of London. So he chose his new destiny and wanted to look behind the veil of the future; the rain was a good omen.

Candles spontaneously burst to life dispersing reluctant dampness. John leaned over the wooden runes and whispered words of the ritual, which was even known by elementary school students. He then dipped the runes in bowls till "colored." He calmly took the dagger in his hands; it flashed its reflections reassuringly at him. A short swing and tight drops of blood finally fell into the black earth from the fresh wound on his hand. John threw sharply and began to put together meanings of the dropped runes.

First came two runes: The Herald of the Horn, and the Eye; it came twice. It was telling that someone was watching him.  
Next came the rune with a trunk, or the rune of ownership. It turned out that he had something to gain, but much to lose. The rune with an animal with horns and hump said that something will end in his life, but something else will begin. And then lastly, the runes that gave nothing as if they were silenced; divided into two tracks: on the one hand - all the good, on the other – all the bad. And there his path lay down the middle; dodging side all the time.

When he asked the most important question, came the rune that he got in the very begging, closing the circle. Man calling someone. He vaguely remembered that it meant only that it was somehow connected with the class of the Oracles. Not much, but it was something to count on.

“Calling Seer,” John tried the words aloud, and found it was surprisingly pleasant. There was something new and unexpected in them. The Class of Oracles and Seers never held any sway of interest for him. He never liked the uncertainty and variability of the magic with which predictors usually worked. And the rather elaborate rituals made him quite despondent. But if one took into account the Subclass of Summoning, which was an indisputable advantage, he had every chance to learn something worthwhile.

Healing had always attracted John with its efficiency, simple spells and tangible results, which was very far from the changing nature of predicting the future. Besides, he’d never had a predisposition for visions, and it was still hard to believe that the curse had changed so much. He would have a lot to remember, a lot to learn, but the study of a new class was not a bad idea.

John meticulously cleaned up after himself, and even took the trouble to dispel ethereal reverberations. He was not afraid that he would get caught, reassured more from habit of being careful than anything else. He did not have so much power as to disturb anybody with the sudden Surge, and the ritual initially attracted him precisely because of its simplicity.

He could not shake off the oppressive foreboding. May be it was his new found Gift, although he found he believed more in his developed intuition that had often helped him in healing. Now intuition told him to be prepared for new problems. There was no hope in Re-registration, and he could not afford to lie to himself - the prospect of getting the Mark truly terrified him.

John always saw the magic in the world around him as a glowing rapid stream of pure energy, but now after what he went through, he only saw a wall as if made from dirty glass. Wherever he looked, he was surrounded by glass, sometimes thicker, sometimes quite subtle. As when he had visited Holmes, he had a feeling that everything around him distractedly lost half of its colors. And he had neither the strength nor the ability to break the damn glass.

A simple ringtone filled the air with strange animation. John hurried to take the call, returning the gloomy place its silence; only broken now by his rapid breathing and a distant voice from the speaker. He did not even have to look at the display to know who had called.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“John.” The calm voice made his heart beat faster; disturbing his magic and making the invisible glass before his eyes more cloudy. “You …”

The world exploded with a million different colors. He blinked and tried to stand up not understanding when he had had time to fall. A sharp pain shot through the whole body, which seemed a bit empty and very light. When the walls were no longer dancing, changing places with the ceiling, and he was able to focus his eyes and look around, John saw that he was lying surrounded by an unbearable radiance. It was like a dome of clean uncomplicated magic closed him off to the world.  
He could not even lift a finger from the shock, and just lay on the ground, trying to understand what had just happened. Watery eyes caught the familiar shape of a lasso that repeatedly slipped off the glowing dome. Someone had persistently tried to find him, John Watson, and had had no luck so far.

Gradually John got his hearing back. He was able to catch a vague melody wafting from the side. The screen annoyingly shone with name of the one and only consulting dark wizard, and John did not have the slightest desire to continue with the call. Especially now.

He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side. The shoulder responded with unbearably aching; recalling the wound left by an arrow with a curse.

The reaction could not be the Recoil from the rite. But now at least he knew that his forefeeling did not fail him. His troubles and problems seemed only to continue to accumulate over time. And if a common search spell had such consequences, what would happen during the Re-registration assessment? Now that was something even he was afraid to predict.

 

(1) - Skuld or one of the Norns which in Norse mythology presents three witches, endowed with gift to determine the fate of the world, people and even the gods. Name Skuld means the future.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW UPDATE"  
> Edited this one as well, only minor things.
> 
>  NOW you can read some facts about the whole universe for better understanding of the text!
> 
> __________________  
> A lot of thanks to wonderful [illulian ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/illulian/pseuds/illulian)and [Twent47blue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Twent47blue) for beting!!!
> 
> btw comments are very welcome
> 
>  
> 
>  

“What are you doing here?”

Going on a last name basis was a logical step when, after returning to his bedside, he found a bored Holmes flipping through his personal diary, on which John had pointedly imposed several locking spells. The day turned out to be an unpleasant one, so he sees no point in being polite to this man. The fact that the dark mage was sitting calmly on the single most uncomfortable chair near the bed, indicated at least that the spells guards his secret cache had not activated, Otherwise he would be in for a rather nasty surprise in the form of John’s illegal gun and a most unpleasant curse to get rid of.

John vaguely remembered how he got to his apartment; the world around him blended into a continuous stream of bleary memories. He was not happy with the brusque invasion of his personal space. Holmes on his part did not look impressed or ashamed, but rather annoyed at such predictable responses and boring social norms. The bedside clock confirmed John’s suspicions that, instead of the usual twenty minutes, the way back to his place had taken more than two hours. He’d spent half a day leading his residual magic flow on a merry goose chase. The place was almost deserted, so there was a significant chance that any magic residue pulse from the ritual might have gone unnoticed, but John chose to play it safe and not lead any direct trace to chance.

“Again, what are you doing here?” He did not even try to hide his irritation.

“I have a business proposition for you. Perhaps the Runes already showed you something, but do not think that they are completely reliable.”

John frowned; he had destroyed the bag and its contents, no matter how sorry he was to have lost the masterfully made bowls, nothing could possibly have betrayed him.

“Of course, it was a Rune Reading ritual,” said Holmes, as if John voiced his doubts aloud. “Bad enough that you are no longer a healer, add a significant drop of magical potency, and uncertain future prospects in regards to Re-registration, and we have only one logical conclusion: A Rune Reading. The way to get all the answers you want that’s easily available, uncomplicated, and in some cases highly efficiently. Although in my opinion, there are far more effective rituals when it comes to blood.”

“You tried to freshen up a bit afterwards, but on your trousers and cane one can see traces of earth and grass. Not things found together anywhere nearby this pitiful place. I believe the ritual knife used is now tucked under your belt. You could have gotten rid of it, as you did with the other tools for the ritual, but you did not. Rather, the item holds some sentimental component for you, and was not needed for cutting grass. A few drops of blood fell on your jacket sleeve. While they are almost invisible, they are impossible to confuse with something else. Putting all these facts together is easy, drawing the right conclusions – well that’s the complicated part. Isn’t that right, former Healer Watson?”

John nodded slowly.

“The ritual is not difficult, for the sake of all gods; every child knows it. It does not require any special knowledge or effort. Only the skill to read the runes,” Holmes tone became rather grouchy. John suspected the many variations of Rune readings irritated Holmes quite strongly, who clearly liked logical chains and findings, and did not tolerate variations in the interpretation.

“But you had covered all traces carefully before the pulse. The only conclusion of such precautions, you do not have official permission to do witchcraft. You have not been given permission, just having been released from the hospital, lodged in this horrible place and given an incompetent appointed curator.”

John nervously clenched the handle of his cane. He really was not given permission to do spell craft, and each time, even just using the most basic household spells, he risked much. He did not like this place, but this area had one indisputable advantage - there were very few people who would report illicit witchcraft rituals. Agents of the Ministry did not dare show their high held noses in these slums.

“Having no authorization, of course, will greatly complicate your life if you expect to use the results of the rite in the case of failed Re-registration .... Oh, you expect to get rid of that with a fine. Well, of course unlikely, but the law allows for such.”

“I do not even want to know how you know this about me. You understand that this is akin to stalking?”

“Or maybe I just asked the right people. It is not difficult for one with my capabilities.”

Wearily John spread a hand over his face. His shoulder ached unbearably, recalling his experiences. If it was not for the Holmes’ presence, he would have collapsed, exhausted on the bed, finally giving his leg a rest after all the walking he did.

“Well, as you seem to know all about me, I’m fine, now leave.”

Holmes finally put his diary aside and took a step towards him.

“It’s less than two days until your Re-registration. The probability of getting the Mark is now close to 90 percent. You and I both know that the cause to get marked now is not a diminishing strength or an instability of your gift. Today's Pulse was felt not only by me. An emission so strong has not been observed for several years. Imagine my surprise when I was hit with such recoil from an elementary search spell.”

“It was you! But why?!”

John ignored Holmes’ statement of an entirely different nature of instability than what’s listed in his official magical discharge report.

“I simply decided to check on a prospective client. And if not for my level of protection, we would not be having this conversation.”

Of course, John had figured that bit out. Bathed in a cold sweat, he tried to dispel any reminder of his presence and any trace of unexpected powerful burst. He did not relish being caught before the Re-registration. With meager chances as it is for at least some positive result, he could not risk it. Therefore, he had to recall his time as a healer and all the tricks he knew as a wild youth.

“You took your time returning. Do you know how boooored I was?”

“What is your proposal?” John inquired. He even wondered what Holmes would come up with this time.

“A contract. With special conditions.”

“A contract ...” John repeated slowly, feeling that he was ready to listen and consider the proposal. He liked Holmes. Meeting the dark wizard was the most interesting thing that happened to him for all the short time of his new civilian life. Call him irrational, but even the dark side of Holmes’ strength did not scare him, rather it appealed to him. He had worked with dark wizards more than once before, and did not suffer conventional prejudices about them.

Holmes gestured gracefully and extracted a rolled scroll made from yellow parchment from the air, and handed it to John. The touch of his hand unfurled the scroll, showing neat lines written in calligraphy. In their time, few people cared about such details as high quality paper or handwritten text. And not everyone can afford such luxury. It was really very posh of Holmes.

John reread the text compiled by an independent lawyer, if one believed the stamps and signatures that is. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a standard contract of partnership, although there were just a few strange conditions. Nothing terrible like selling of his immortal soul. Such agreements were often created by magicians with different levels of strength and knowledge so as to work or travel together.

“Can I add my conditions?” As hard as he tried, John could not find any tricks or hidden clauses, but decided to play it safe.

“You have until tomorrow. I will need your answer at noon,” Holmes nodded irritably and stood back. He was now not looming over John, forcing him to lift his head to look into gray eyes.

“Why did you require an unplayable debt in the beginning when it was possible doing a contract?”

“Worth a try, might you agree?” Holmes smirked.

For a second his pale face and sharp cheekbones were like a skull with skin. It reminded John that he had to deal not just with a dark wizard, but, if rumors had you believe, a necromancer as well. He never saw any confirmation of such speculations, but such dubious infamy could not arise from nowhere.

“How often do people agree?” Now John was really curious. He preferred not to think that he himself had been ready to give up and answer yes. But Holmes did not need to know that.

“You would be surprised if you knew how often, John. Not many people think about the consequences of such an agreement.”

John rubbed his eyes wearily. The room became even darker; the faint glow of lamps that he’d conjured to switch on and off automatically had not dispelled the gathering darkness. The sickening realization suddenly struck him, and he looked around anxiously. John had been too focused on Holmes to see something was amiss until it was too late.

The familiar dark smoke crawled clinging to the walls. The phantoms were no longer hiding, and greedily clung to Holmes, making his already high figure bulky and heavier. John overcame the pain in his leg, and hobbled to the door.

“Merlin’s beard! Why didn’t you bother to restore the wards?! How could you be so careless?!”

John tried to restore the broken spell. The wards should have lasted until the morning, if not for someone else's intervention. And now he had neither the strength nor the time to stop the invasion. The phantoms from all the building rushed to them, attracted by a powerful magician. John did not think that this already lousy day could get any worse.

“Do something!”

“As you wish.” 

Holmes untied his scarf around his neck and opened his cloak rather theatrically. His power surged and became even stronger. The room became even darker, and lights blinked out pathetically for the last time. Whatever the dark wizard was doing, it called for more phantoms, rather than scare them away. An increasing echo forced the windows to rattle plaintively, causing John to want to cover his ears. At some point, John could not resist and did so. He was afraid to close eyes and lose sight of Holmes, so he stubbornly resisted the urge to blink. The dark mage was almost invisible, John could only guess that bright spots were pale face and hands that were drawing something in the air.

Suddenly everything became very quiet. A weak echo swept the floors and disappeared.

“I can’t believe you sealed the phantoms here!” The almost palpable dark smoke swirled around them, crawling into intricate shapes on the walls and ceiling.

“I did a favor to all of your neighbors. And you never did specify what you wanted me to do.”

“Yes. Well, sorry to be caught in a moment.” John snorted dryly. “But now I have nowhere to live!” The prospect of an existence with all these phantoms was a horror in itself. The invisible glass around him shuddered with ripples.

“Oh, do calm down,” Holmes huffed, grabbing his hands and gently shook him. “Otherwise, there will be another pulse. I have an empty bedroom at Baker Street.”

“So you think I should be ok with that?” John asked suspiciously, instantly calming down. Holmes’s grip was precisely what allowed him to recover his senses.

“Obviously. Now you have a place to live and feel safe in.”

John had no choice but to agree, even if he was not very optimistic on the safety part.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 04.03.2106  
> BIG UPDATE!!!!
> 
> Now [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) is my great, cool beta! hehhe))))

For the first time in a long time John had a dream that had nothing to do with his usual nightmares about the war and being wounded, but the morning did not bring long-awaited relief. It only raised more questions.

In this strange dream his shoes were sinking into something marshy as he strolled alongside the banks of a forest stream overgrown with willows and red moss. John wanted to take deep breaths and enjoy the unique smell of the forest, but instead of freshness he inhaled dry sultry air from his memories of Afghanistan.

The weather was cloudy - the burning sun had disappeared somewhere, and the sky was darkened with clouds. His jacket clung to the branches and twigs, causing John to angrily bite his lips, but he stubbornly kept going. John did not need guidance, somehow knowing his destination. So when the house suddenly appeared before him, John was not even slightly surprised.

It looked very ordinary, just like the many houses which were usually passed by in the suburbs without so much as a second glance. John carefully waited near the threshold, and listened for what had been following him for some time. The huge gray beast, The Guard, noiselessly jumped out from the bushes. Intelligent yellow eyes scanned him, and the beast took a step back, lay down and rested its huge head on top of its outstretched paws. It felt like John had passed some kind of test.

John knocked softly on the door of the house. Silence was his only answer for long, stretching seconds. Eventually, something crashed inside the house, and the door creaked open. A really old woman in a warm knitted shawl and slippers appeared in the doorway.

“Well.” She said in a dull voice. “So you have found your way here. Come in.”

“Thank you.” John easily jumped onto the porch and stepped through the door.

The inside of the house seemed immense - it was one huge room, much bigger than what it looked like from the outside. John settled down in a corner on top of a pile of soft furs to wait. The old woman bustled about; on the wooden table different bowls began to appear, but try as he might, he could not see what was inside them.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Of course.” Her voice sounded hollow, as if from a great distance. He tried to look closer at her, but all he could see was a wrinkled face, framed by thick gray hair that was tied up into a bun. Pale eyes looked at him expectantly. John looked around again, but now he could see nothing at all, not even walls or a table. The house had disappeared completely, leaving only the old woman standing in front of him.

“Your Guard hasn’t recognized me. It let me pass, but hasn’t recognized…”

“As it should have.”

“?” John started in surprise.

“You’re cold inside. And you smell dead.”

John woke up in a cold sweat, entangled in dark clots of phantoms. They greedily clung to his hands, curled around his neck and stuck to his face as weightless lump. He fastidiously brushed them off and sat on the bed trying to calm his fast breathing. John could remember both his grandmothers, but the woman in the dream was neither of them.

He had hoped that at least in Holmes’s flat he could sleep without the annoying echoes of past dark spells. John strongly suspected that the dark wizard was not often bothered with cleaning (1), if he was at all.

Baker Street actually had a spare bedroom, if a bit cluttered, a fact which Mrs. Hudson chided Holmes for after she was convinced that John had everything he needed in the form of a set of bed linens. After an exchange of courtesies, John was glad to be finally left alone. He sank wearily onto the dusty bedsheets and just breathed in the smell of the long unoccupied room.

Now, his foot and shoulder were not the only things that gave him trouble. His whole body ached with pain. So far the day had been very eventful, so he hastily made the bed and was relieved to stretch out on the mattress. John hoped to have a proper rest and be prepared for another tiring day, but his night spent under the new roof presented him with new surprises.

The dream agitated him, confirming his wild guesses. John did not like to engage in self-deception, but now he really did not want to admit the obvious. What he had seen in the dream was not just a hint of a suspicion that had long tormented him, it was the answer.

Stirring his morning tea that he had found with some trouble in the kitchen, John realized several obvious things. Holmes didn’t just need a companion, he needed a keeper and a guide.

A glimpse into the Holmes way of life in the short time that he had been here had made him aware of several things. Not only did the mage have an amazing power that could easily be confused with the Source (it was that phenomenal) , but he also was well connected. The amount of times he neglected the rules and laws dictated by the Ministry of Magic was extraordinary.

During his first visit to Holmes’s place John had paid no attention to obviously selective protection wards, nor to many essential echoes, which to some extent had already turned into phantoms, nor abandoned spells that made the air tremble. Too startled by the collection of rare books and artifacts, and most importantly, inspired by the possible help, he had missed the most important fact that he had needed to consider - this was the home of a real dark wizard, in the sinister sense. Besides all that, the dark mage had really powerful patrons in the highest places, providing John with another explanation for Holmes’s obvious indifference to the possible consequences and penalties of a disregard for rules John had never seen before.

In the light of these new discoveries John carefully read the contract one more time, but like last time, saw nothing strange or unusual. Holmes only considered it necessary to remove any force majeure clauses in the contract, and to make a three-stage procedure for the termination of the contract, which would require the assistance of independent third parties. This wasn’t usually practiced because of the many expenses and complicated procedures involved, as well as all the trouble it caused.

 

For himself, John decided to add his refusal to participate in any kind of sacrifice and any kind of dark ritual he deemed unacceptable.

There also remained the important fact that they simply couldn’t stand each other's company and have any working relationship, so John decided to bypass Holmes’s condition for termination, which would have meant perpetuity, in the easiest way possible - adding a one year term with the possibility of further extension.

Of course, the contract stated that Holmes would help him with his curse and would not harm him with any actions in the process of removal. After signing this document they both could not cause any harm to each other during the course of their partnership. John wrote a few other important conditions on the paper and, extremely pleased with himself, decided to wait in the living room for Holmes. Now he was ready to give his answer.

After his last visit nothing had really changed in the living room. This time however, the skull was not powered by its master’s magic, so it was not illuminating the room and trying to start a conversation. Even the nonstop pulsation of magic no longer bothered John, but instead soothed him. He did not know how to explain it, so decided to take what was happening with the magic for granted.

John walked through the room, stopping in front of the chair in which he was previously offered to take a seat. Beneath it the trap still shone. With interest and admiration he followed the intricate pentagrams. Now he could see that the spell was closed in on itself, which made it more dangerous and less susceptible to intervention. It was easy enough to change a few characters, so that there would be no imprisonment or Funnel (2), only the minor discomfort of staying in it.

“Good morning, John. I see you're already prepared.”

“Good morning, Sherlock.” John straightened slowly from his bent over position in front of the chair, helping himself up with his cane. “I've had time to think things through.”

They stopped in front of each other, evaluating and waiting. Even this early in the morning, the dark mage looked perfect, inadvertently causing John to feel uncomfortable in his sweater, given to him by his sister back when they were still talking to each other. The sweater was one of his few items of clothing, which had been given back to him after his return and were very useful in the changeable weather of London. But for some reason, whenever John was near Holmes he began to wonder about the appropriateness of his wardrobe.

“I understand we have no need to wait till noon to call a lawyer?” The dark magician looked alive and full of energy.

“I have no objections.”

“Good, since I've already called him.”

“So you did not think that I would refuse.” It was not a question, but John still got his answer.

“No.”

“How very presumptuous of you.”

“Not at all. I knew from the beginning that you would agree.”

John was prepared to listen to the amazing deductions that seemed so simple and easy to understand once the dark mage explained them, but Holmes suddenly paused and looked angrily at the opened door. In the doorway, John saw only a vague silhouette.

“May I come in?” asked a calm, weary voice.

“Come in, Inspector. You are just in time. This is John Watson, my future partner.”

“Gregory Lestrade. Did he blackmail you?” asked the Inspector with some sympathy while John shook his hand. “I can’t believe that someone voluntarily agreed to work with him.”

“He is not that bad… Well, I hope not, at least.”

John immediately took a liking to Holmes’s Inspector. Handsome, with brown tenacious eyes and a strong handshake he gave off the impression of a good man. As well as that, his warm yellow aura showed that he was a strong enough mage.

“Sherlock, you are not answering my calls.” Lestrade sighed wearily and threw an eloquent glance at the dark wizard. “Have you found anything?”

“Not yet.”

Lestrade tousled his short hair in annoyance and sighed again.

“If you find something, dial me. Please. And turn on your phone.”

John had no choice but to watch both of them silently. He had a guess about what, or rather whom, the Inspector had come to ask about, and Holmes immediately confirmed it as if reading his thoughts:

“The Ministry, of course, detected a strong Burst. Do not worry, for you will never be found out. While we wait for the lawyer, I believe there is one last formality we need to go through.”

Holmes came very close and extended his hand. “John Watson, I welcome you to my house, and I invite you to share my home and my life.”

“I accept.” John said as he confidently clasped the cold fingers, struggling with the premonition that he was being offered a lot more.

 

(1) – The term implies deliverance from essential echoes after any spell or ritual. Otherwise, they accumulate, disrupting the harmony and balance of the world. Echoes from dark spells tend to quickly convert into tangible phantoms; phantoms from other spells are converted much more slowly. Only essential echoes from Healing spells are immediately transferred to the category of tangible phantoms, as those spells involve working with pain and suffering;  
(2) - One of the ways to deprive a mage of power.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update from 20 of March 2016
> 
> Now [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) is my great, cool beta! hehhe))))  
> Thanks to her you will be able to read this chap without my mistakes)))
> 
> _______________
> 
> Update from 11 of March 2016
> 
> My dears, the chap is being edited now)) and that's great news))) ^__^  
> wait a bit and soon chaps 7 and 8 will be fully edited and then where will be more updates)))))

“Do you trust me?”

 John had not expected his morning to begin with such a complex question. Although, the answer was surprisingly easy to give:

“I trust you.”

 He really did trust this almost-stranger. Evidence all around him indicated that he should not trust this magician, but John irrationally and so illogically believed in him, and did not even think that Holmes would deceive him. He did not know how to explain his own behavior. There was a strong possibility that he had finally lost touch with reality, and that a desire to return a sense of danger and excitement to his life had driven him to take this step.

 “Then fear nothing, for I will always be near.” Holmes nodded and gestured for John to follow him down the stairs.

 Behind the door with the sign 221C was an unfriendly, dark room. The one and the only interesting thing about the room was an old mirror that was somehow able to slightly improve the appearance of the room, gleaming dully in the corner. Time hadn’t just left its indelible mark on the massive intricate frame - the once unblemished surface of the mirror was affected as well. Ugly dark spots scattered along the bottom of the glass and crawled through the middle, leaving only the upper right corner clear of any marks.

 John, with mild curiosity, stared at the reflective surface. The antique mirror politely and indifferently showed him his own reflection: light graying hair, a face imprinted with the marks of past years, and his tired blue eyes. Behind his right shoulder in another expensive suit stood Holmes. Today he was wearing a white shirt and cuff-links shaped like four leaf clovers, the only explicit magical protection that John could see.

 After the lawyer had put his signature on the contract, he’d immediately said his goodbyes and practically ran away. Looking very pleased with himself, Holmes had said that he needed some time to make preparations, and that John could spend the time resting and making himself at home on Baker Street. So that was what John did.

 Holmes had been out for the rest of the day, so John had lazily watched TV, jumping from channel to channel, and then gratefully accepted Mrs. Hudson’s offer to have dinner with her. After dinner, he’d decided to do a little cleaning - with the help of artifacts lying around, of course. He had not relished the prospect of another night surrounded by phantoms without any hope of normal sleep and rest. After looking at Holmes’s spells, John then decided that there was no need for any more defense, warding runes or spells, since he did not want to disturb Holmes’s work.

 Words of deflation were not anything special, but it was his great-great-grandfather who had come up with this incantation, and the Watson family had been using it consistently since, strengthening the effect with each generation.

   _Actum ne agas. Memento quia pelvis._ (1)

 John had needed to walk around the apartment twice in order for his manipulation to work and for him to be satisfied with the view of the lightened walls and furniture, no longer marked with a dull patina of dark smoke. Even breathing became easier. It did not escape his attention that the magic here had started singing differently to him, like new strings on a violin, ringing with anticipation.

 After returning, Sherlock did not comment on John’s arbitrariness, but advised, in his strange way that sounded more like giving orders, for John to go to bed early and try to rest. John complied, not having any better option.

 Snapping back to the present, John spun around. It was the same empty room, but now the mirror only reflected him. Once again, he looked carefully into the smooth surface.... and then there was only darkness behind him: he no longer saw the shape of the room or his reflection.

 He had firsthand experience with rituals involving mirrors, and was well aware of all the complexities and dangers of working with them. However Holmes and he only had one day to solve the problem with the instability of his magic, worsened by his proximity to said Holmes, so John determinedly touched the cool surface with his fingertips, and fell through the looking glass and into the world beyond.

 There was darkness all around him.

 It was scary to stand still, so he began walking with no direction in mind. He did not need the cane now, since his leg was no longer spiked with unbearable pain every time he took a step, but nevertheless John was afraid to drop-and therefore lose-it.

 At first, there was an eerie silence. The sound of his own footsteps resounded dully and dissolved into nothing. He stopped and closed his eyes, willing his pounding heart to calm down. From all sides he began to hear strange voices. They talked, laughed, cried, cursed and quarreled, hotly whispered, and passionately sighed. Steeling himself, John finally calmed down and decided to look around.

 His memories, familiar and forgotten, took shape as heads without bodies flashing past him. There was no more impenetrable darkness. His surroundings were filled with a pale gray light, but, no matter how hard he tried, John could not identify the source of it. The visions were in no hurry to go away so John didn’t think he was hallucinating. Heads looked at him with either interest or indifference, and hurried on with their mysterious business. One small head glanced at him with its slanting eyes and murmured amiably:

 “Guest! Old guest!” and flew away.

 Under his feet lay a dead, ashen desert; something gray-he could not call it the sky even if he wanted to-pressed down on him from above. It was much worse than any trap he had ever faced, because it was a new mystery. And Holmes had purposely told him nothing about it.

 Faceless buildings silently stretched upward. Their blind windows looked over rare patches of stunted grass and a brown ribbon of a road. Everything emitted an unbearable heat; the objects lost their sharpness and blurred together. Nothing cast a shadow except for him.

 John slowly walked down the scorching street immersed in memories. He was back in the day that had changed his whole life.

 Occasionally he came across sand castles made by children. Sand. There was sand everywhere. Around him stood the dilapidated walls of houses without roofs, windows without frames and glass, the remains of stairs and handrails, the same stunted grass - everything was exactly as he remembered; as if it had happened only yesterday.

 The province of Zabol was nothing to write home about, although it was quite a large settlement. The same houses, the same faces, dusty and unwelcoming – the same faces seen nearly everywhere in Afghanistan. If not for the ambush in which their small force had been caught, it would have remained another saddle point between the bases. But now, its streets were destined to be in his dreams until the end of his days, with no hope of him ever forgetting the crossroad where he was left to die.

 Strange shapes reluctantly passed him, driven by the wind. He watched the tumbleweeds and returned to his contemplation of the hungry desert. It greedily breathed in the dust and tried to draw him in with its deceptive inviolability.

 The colossal weight pushed down hard on his shoulders, not letting him go any further. He seemed to have been wandering around this town for several hours. Squatting down, John watched in amazement as a bluish cloud rose up around him. His hand reached out to something that just a few moments ago he had thought was sand. Now, instead of sand, weightless ashes flew through his fingers.

 Perhaps if he had not rushed to help the teenager that was under fire, he would not have been hit by the cursed arrow. However John could not live with the knowledge that he had turned away from a child in the war. Shielding the thin body, he did not think about himself. During such moments you never thought about yourself.

 At first he did not understand why he had suddenly begun to limp - he had only been able to see the frightened black eyes on the boy’s gray face. Arrows pierced his defense; his amulets and charms were useless, which meant that their force had managed to run into a strong enemy. An enemy whom he had not expected to be interested in their small, common task force. After all, there was the full-scale operation “Moshtarak” in progress within the neighboring Helmand province.

The second arrow hit him in the shoulder from behind. At first he thought he was only imagining the green flickering, but the light only become stronger with each passing second, and John remembered the moment when he realized that if the curse did not kill him, the blood loss surely would.

  _Gods, let me live._

 Now in this strange place from his memories there was no chaos, no shouts, and no blood drying into brown puddles near prostrate bodies. No flicker of spells that had found their targets, no pressure caused by out-of-control magic - nothing that had turned this place and that day into a constant nightmare. Only silence and ashes.

 There was nothing accidental in fact that he stopped at the spot where his poisoned blood had dripped from his wound and mixed with earth and sand. He never found out, but he hoped that the teenager had managed to escape. Back then, while slowly dying he had prayed to all the Gods known to him in the hope that They would give him a chance to survive. Amazingly, They did.

 He squatted down and carefully began to rake his fingers through the weightless ashes, knowing for sure what he would find.

 At first it was only a hand sticking out of the gray earth: white, with translucent bones and joints, skin so fragile and unnaturally stretched that it seemed about ready to burst. He would have recognized the hand from a million others, because he had seen it every day for the past thirty-eight years.

 He did not stop until a familiar uniform, a second hand and a torso appeared out of the ashes. John, in a stupor, blew the ash away from gray face and hair, staring down at his own face.

 He knew that it was not his mirror twin (2); he looked at John Watson, who remained lying on the ground, shielding a child with his body. The realization came suddenly - there was no curse, no pain. Only his memory of it - a greeting from a past life.

 He frantically gasped for dry air mixed with ashes, but he could not take a single breath.

 “John, breathe!” Holmes’s shout brought him to his senses. John watched as his own shadow stirred and stretched, taking on the familiar outlines of a tall figure with curly hair. All this time, Holmes truly had been near, as he had promised he would be.

 Breathe, breathe, breathe.

 John blinked, and again around him was a familiar darkness with the familiar mirror hanging in the air. Holmes's voice led him towards that hanging “door” and back into their world. Going back was nothing special - it was as if they had not just walked into another dimension. John breathed in the stale air of the basement room at Baker Street with relief, and would have fallen if not for the support of the dark mage.

 “Break the mirror! Now!” Holmes grabbed him, wrapping his left hand around John’s waist and making it impossible for him to step away. The dark mage easily slid his other hand down John’s shoulder and onto the hand that was frantically squeezing the cane. The cane which had been given to him by the old shaman at the crossroads in a forgotten province of Afghanistan.

 The said cane, with a knob made from a rare wood in the form of a horse head, flew into the mirror. There was a deafening ringing, and the mirror shattered into glittering shards.

 John took a tentative step, freeing himself from Holmes’s embrace. His foot was no longer bothering him, and there was no more of the excruciating pain in his shoulder that had been haunting him at all hours of the day and night. And now, he knew that the ritual had not been necessary for the removal of the curse, as it had existed only in his mind and in his memories.

 He remained standing with his back turned to Holmes, asking the question and already knowing the answer:

 “You've known from the start that I had died and been resurrected, right?”

 

 

(1) - What is over will not come back. Remember that you are just ashes;  
(2) - Mirror twin or Doppelgerts or Doppelgänger


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 09 April 2016  
> Good news, my dears))))) We finished chap 8))and started working with chap 9)))
> 
> Now [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) is my great, cool beta! hehhe))))  
> Thanks to her you will be able to read this chap without my mistakes)))
> 
> Update 23 March 2016:  
> My dears, the chap is being edited now)) 
> 
>  
> 
> (btw the fic in russian already posted, all the 16 chaps - if you know the language you can read it in one go)

 

John turned towards the glowing fireplace so that he would not have to see keen gray eyes observing his every reaction. Blue flames really fascinated him, and it was also easier not to think about the fact that Holmes and himself knew almost nothing about each other. This way it was easier to pretend that Holmes’s dark aura, which he was now able to see clearly, did not scare and at the same time excite him.

The ritual with the mirror was the final step needed to finish what the old shaman had started in Afghanistan, in order to help him get back to the living world. As soon as he had made that last step to complete the transition, he had finally seen everything as it had appeared before he had been hit by the cursed arrow. There was no longer invisible cloudy glass wherever he turned, and nothing prevented him from looking and using his ability to see. He had almost forgotten how bright the glow of enchanted objects could be, and how unique the power surrounding different spaces could be.

Every object in the house radiated primeval magic. Every book, every artifact, every intricate curl of each pentagram and enchantment - now nothing was hidden from his surprised gaze. Amidst all the diversity and the dizzying range of magic, the dark mage stood out as lively dark matter, where before, John saw only a dense gray cocoon. Holmes sat in his chair like it was a throne, hands clasped under his chin in a gesture similar to one of prayer, powerful and unforgiving in his indifference.

The pale face framed by dark hair seemed like a lifeless mask, attracting with a strange ethereal beauty. Now John understood what others vaguely felt when faced with the dark wizard - even the most powerful spells could not hide a strange deathly pallor; no artifact could disguise his overwhelming power.

He had never had to deal with such a powerful mage before - a mage whose magic, even after being restrained using a self-control of iron, still forced the air around him to shiver and tremble. It was surprising and fascinating. The destructive part that had always existed within him wanted to break down all the barriers to Holmes’s power and see what would happen. Would it end with a devastating tornado? When unrestrained, magic would burst in all directions. Or, the release could end with an all consuming fire, where everything would burn to ashes in the cleansing flames. John was absolutely sure that the elements of air and fire perfectly reflected the essence of Holmes.

Sitting in front of the dark mage in an old chair, smearing the pentagram and breaking the trap which lay underneath, John tried unsuccessfully to cope with his overwhelming feelings: irritation, anxiety, elation, desperation, curiosity and relief.

“You have questions. Ask while we have time”.

He had a lot of questions, but for most of them, he himself now knew the answers. His wound and curse really had become the starting point for all the changes that had happened to him. But his world had been turned upside down by his Death.

He had died and been resurrected.

Now everything was clear as day: the instability of his magic, the decline in his strength, the unpredictable reactions of even the simplest of spells and the inability to cast spells as he had been taught and how he was used to. He tried to use his magic like he had always done, not wanting to see what was in front of his own eyes.

One never could come back the same from the other side.

It was not surprising that the Ministry did not know what to do with him, except place tracking charms on him and shove his case onto some incompetent supervisors. Necromancy in England was not completely banned; many of its branches were used not only in medicine, but even in common household spells. Most preferred to ignore the fact that even a common spell such as the spell of deflation, or even the act of exorcism belonged to the expulsive category of spells. It was easier to ignore such knowledge than to accept the fact that every day one used dark magic. Only a narrow-minded and ignorant person would think that the high art of Necromancy began and ended with sacrifice and the resurrection of the dead.

 He remembered almost nothing about what had happened after he had been hit by the second cursed arrow. There had been a lot of pain. The air around him had shook with the uncontrollable emission of magic, while he had prayed to all of the Gods known to him for salvation. Then came the blessed darkness.

Only now did John remember how he had been carried into a dugout as if being lowered into a grave. He remembered the faint light of a fire, walls covered with hanging herbs and a pile of furs lying in a dark corner. But these fragments of memory were of little help towards reconstructing the picture of what had happened. Now he was not sure if what had happened was even real or not.

He did not feel any different. And if not for the change in his magical abilities, he never would have even tried to find out what really had happened that day. He would have just lived and rejoiced in the fact that his prayers had been heard by the Gods, and an old shaman, taking pity on him, had helped him to get better. John never wondered about the motives of that old man. He really had not wanted to. One of the reasons was the language barrier, and the other - the desire not to know, coming from an unconscious fear of the answer. When he had come to his senses and seen the shabby walls and low dark ceiling instead of the sagging tent top of a field hospital, he had already known that he had been considered dead and left behind.

Later, he had returned to his unit emaciated and sick, barely able to walk even with a help of enchanted cane, passed the tedious procedure of identity verification and document recovery and learned the sad details of the official report.

He was the only one that had managed to survive the detachment. The authorities did not even spare any agents to check the residual traces of magic, and since most of the bodies could not be found and returned, he, like the rest of his colleagues, was listed as missing, and two months later they would be presumed killed in action.

His return had been sort of a surprise, but an internal investigation had given nothing - John could barely remember anything and could not shed any light on what had happened: who had ambushed them, why they had been targeted, even his miraculous escape were all things that he could not explain. No one could explain what had happened to him.

He was judged unfit for service and was sent home with a honorable discharge, without the hype and proceedings that would conceal the evidence of their own incompetence and helplessness in the face of the inexplicable.

John was sure Holmes had known all of this from their very first meeting. He had deduced that and drawn conclusions, but had done nothing, choosing to leave everything as it was. John had suspected from the beginning and was now absolutely sure - for Holmes, he was just another new mystery, an interesting experiment. An experiment so interesting that the dark magician had offered him a contract, even giving up the idea of an unpayable debt so that John would stay, but did not bother to give John any explanation.

John could not help but notice that Holmes read him like a book, and that his uncertainty was not hidden from Holmes’s inquisitive stare. However, so far, he only had one question to which he wanted to get a very clear answer from:

“What do you see when you look at me?”

Holmes perked up a bit, as if the question had surprised him. The darkness around him stirred, glinting with flashes of blue. John had never encountered anything like this. He really was curious if the dark mage saw something interesting while looking at him, John Watson.

“I see...” it was clear that Holmes was carefully choosing his words. “Blinding radiance, as if I am looking at the sun on a cloudless day. Where, by all the laws of the universe, there should be darkness, I see only flashes of light. When I look at you, I see a puzzle, an enigma which I want to solve.”

John hoped his blush was not very noticeable, as he could feel the telltale heat scalding his cheeks. Holmes’s words were clearly not meant as a compliment, but he could do nothing about his rapid pulse and the sudden intense desire to look away. He was not very happy about his own curiosity now, although it had been rather insightful.

“I am not surprised that none of the healers could understand what was happening to me. Well, the instability of my magic can be explained as a effect of the curse. But now I have too little time to find a new balance.”

Holmes nodded.

“Do not be surprised by their stupidity. This is a common attribute of the human race.”

The dark mage suddenly stood up. Coming from below, John heard some noise and the muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson. In the air anticipation had spread, causing the weave of runes and pentagrams to pulsate brightly. John inadvertently began to get caught up in this excitement as well. He did not know what was happening, but he was already anticipating something unusual.

Holmes confidently opened the door, and a black bird suddenly flew in. The raven circled around the room and landed on the back of the chair in which John sat. The bird cawed irritably and again flew in a circle, this time landing on John’s shoulder. Black eyes gazed curiously at him until he-a little awkwardly-untied the note attached to a small talon with one hand. Only in the Ministry and in the palace was an archaic method of communication such as this still used, when nowadays it was easier to make a call or send a message.

As he passed the note to Holmes,the raven scattered into black ashes that fluttered in the air.

“Very well,” the dark mage quickly scanned the contents of the note and handed it back to John. It contained only a few words, which meant nothing at all to John.

  _One more. 22 Northumberland Street. Gregson._

“You've seen a lot of deaths,” suddenly Holmes stood very close, towering over him.

“Yes. More than enough.”

“Would you like to join me in one case? It could be dangerous.”

“Oh, Gods, yes!”

“Then follow me, John. Today we will have the opportunity to test our partnership, from which I am expecting a lot.”

John found himself studying the dark mage’s face, with its high cheekbones and sensual lips, not daring to look into Holmes’s eyes until he was suddenly rather unceremoniously pushed toward the exit.

“We are going out, Mrs. Hudson. We’ll be late, so don’t wait up,” Holmes had already put on his dark coat and now John hurried to do the same, his haste preventing him from dressing properly.

“Does it have something to do with those recent sacrifices, Sherlock ?”

“Four! Four improbable sacrifices,” the pleased detective assured his landlady. “And there is no point in sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”

“Look at you, so happy. It's not decent,” laughed Mrs. Hudson.

“Who cares about propriety.” Holmes hurried to the front door. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello-hello, my dears))) new chap finally)))!))
> 
> Now [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) is my great, cool beta! hehhe))))  
> And, please, comment)) we will be glad to hear how our tandem is doing so far))) we try to make text better and better)))
> 
> Also if you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers andexplanations).

The streets of London met them with extraordinary energy for this time of the day. The threat of rain had caused people to recall their urgent matters, and now people walked, ran, and jostled, all heading somewhere in a hurry, forming an endless live stream that twisted, filling the city with life. 

Cobbled pavements merged into asphalt road, which in turn ended in dusty off-road intersections. High-rise buildings were sided with wooden houses and stone masonry. Bicycles, cars, horse-drawn carriages and single riders raced past with the hubbub and noise.

For the first time in a long time, John was enjoying a stroll. He no longer needed to rely on his cane and stop once in a while to give respite to his overworked leg. There was no more need to pay attention to the magical Vortices once again, they were no longer an insurmountable obstacle. He felt like he could go anywhere without stopping, without a goal, just because he could.

While following Holmes, John could not help but notice how the Londeners parted in front of the dark mage. People unconsciously rushed in all directions to avoid being touched accidentally by the folds of his dark coat. Looking at the straight back in front of him, John ruefully mused about what surprises he should expect from their sudden partnership, which had begun so strangely. He could not help but think of how lonely the dark wizard must be.

Holmes was too powerful to need anybody's help, so he barely gained anything with the contract. John, of course, admitted the possibility that what the mage needed was an ordinary Guide (1). Although that was very hard to believe. But maybe, it was a very small chance, Holmes just got tired of being lonely. He did not give the impression of a person who had many friends. John winced involuntarily. Sherlock Holmes gave the impression of a man who did not have friends at all, and he strongly suspected that this was an absolute fact. Especially when one considered all that he had learned about the strange mage during their brief acquaintance.

Suddenly stopping near the curb, the dark mage theatrically waved his hand, and as if from thin air a gig immediately appeared. The driver raised his hat and politely inquired:

“Where to, gentlemen?”

“Northumberland Street, and quickly.”

“Sherlock,” called John. “It would be really nice if you had explained some things to me.”

Even while he had been too busy with his own problems, John knew from newspapers and gossip about the hype around the strange sacrifices that had rocked London. If he had made the right conclusions, the Ministry had now resorted to the help of a one-of-a-kind consulting dark mage with the investigation of these mysterious murders. In confirmation of his thoughts Holmes leaned toward him, so close that his breath caressed John’s ear:

“We have four murders, in which the victims are in no way related to each other. Not through social status, nor their level of power or by their division in the classes. There are no traces and no clues, but these ordinary mages have been murdered and completely drained of magic. The Ministry thinks that all the cases are sacrifices. And while they are at an impasse, they have finally decided to contact me. They should have done so after the first murder.”

The unspoken "idiots" hung in the air.

When the cab suddenly stopped, John was surprised to see a quiet, unremarkable street. Holmes caught him firmly by the elbow and confidently led him somewhere past the unremarkable buildings. “What impudence” was the only thing John was able to think in response to such manhandling; he even did not try throwing Holmes’s arm off as they were already standing near a neat gate hidden by overgrown wild grapevines, while a hedge concealed solid brickwork.

John had already mentally prepared himself for the view of a usual enchanted house. But his expectations were far from the truth; he was really unpleasantly surprised by the ill, oppressive atmosphere that had infected a once beautiful garden. It was like a grim omen hanging in the air.

Shabby walls, boarded shutters and almost faded spells of protection told John one obvious thing: the house was not watched. Perhaps it had been uninhabited for a long time now; it was strange for a property that, although not in the heart of London was still in a good area, to be so neglected.

It was too quiet and serene, almost like the calm before a storm. Way too quiet for the silence to seem natural.

“Hopefully, there will no unpleasant surprises,” grumbled John. “No pixies or basilisks or, Merlin forbid, ghouls.”

“Oh, only agents of the Ministry,” Holmes assured him and lifted the wraith (2). The air was immediately filled with the sounds of voices; people in the ministerial uniform rushed past, not paying any attention to them. With colored splashes spilled magic spread around, caused by a wide variety of spells. They merged surprisingly easily into the working area, as if the presence of the two civilian magicians below the wraith was something taken for granted.

“Holmes! Outsiders are not allowed here,” hissed a dark-skinned witch taking a step toward them and blocking the road. Her aura was painted with angry scarlet splashes that started to give John a headache. He wanted to close his eyes to stop the ugly glare from piercing his eyes.

“I have an invitation from Gregson.”

“Who is this?” the witch nodded toward John with suspicion. Her curls bounced in a funny way, ruining the impression of the severity in her tone.

“My partner, John Watson. John, this is Sally Donovan.”

“Partner? Where did you get a partner? No sane mage would agree to work with you.”

“Would it be better if I just waited ....” John really did not want to attract any attention from the Ministry.

“No”, Holmes was adamant. He put his hand on John’s lower back and confidently pushed John towards the opened door, where they were met with the next obstacle in the form of a disgruntled agent in a protective suit.

“Ah, Anderson, it’s you again.”

“This is a crime scene,” said the unhappy looking mage whose light green aura was filled with scarlet ripples, like the aura of agent Donovan, although to a lesser degree. “I do not want it to be trampled by outsiders.”

“We will not be long,” Holmes assured the cold, unfriendly agent.

It was surprisingly quiet inside the house. Dust swirled in the corners, intricately interwoven with cobwebs. Everything screamed of desolation and despair. John involuntarily froze in the middle of the hallway listening to the old house. It gave him the impression that it was keeping an eye on another outsider that had violated its privacy.

Holmes shook hands with a tall blond man with watery blue eyes and introduced him to John as Commissioner Gregson, whose envoy and brief note had summoned the dark mage.

A wide spiral staircase ended with another abandoned half-empty room. The dusty cabinets were filled with sloppy rows of ingredients for potions; and in some the faded lines of the names could be still read. The root of an aspen, crushed snakes’ teeth, dried milkweed flowers and fern - someone's long-abandoned life had been gathering dust on the shelves before it was so unceremoniously invaded by outsiders. John inadvertently delayed the moment when he had to look at the body of a woman in pink coat sprawled on the floor. During his lifetime he had seen more than enough of deaths: horrible, absurd, unjust, fast and slow. But only a few times in his entire practice had he needed to face a ritual murder.

John once again looked around carefully. Apart from an empty shell that was once a living breathing person, he did not see anything special. The crime scene did not seem like a place of sacrifice. The walls and floor sported a randomly drawn pentagrams: conscription, abduction eyes, and pointing damage. Unfinished runes, cast spells stuck in a vacuum, sealing magic in a static condition – everything here was unfinished and kind of sloppy. John did not see any system or sequence, as if someone had very methodically mussed up any traces. And more importantly, there were no ethereal reverberations.

“What do you think, Mr. Holmes?” The first to break the silence was Commissioner Gregson.

“John?”

“I…. I would say that it was not a sacrifice in the sense in which we are accustomed to understand. The act of Sacrifice always has some kind of a clear goal. Each type has a distinct order of ritual actions. The power that is liberated by the ritual force, depending on experience and the degree of preparedness of the conductive magician, can be used in many ways. It is most commonly used first to summon, secondly, to strengthen the abilities, thirdly, very rarely - for sealing (3)” 

Slowly, trying not to touch anything, John walked around the room in a circle. 

“Here there is nothing, just a chaotic set of unrelated spells and rituals. And at the same time, a witch completely drained of her power. I'm certainly no expert, but most of all it looks like a strange ritual of sealing. I do not know what was in the previous three cases, but if the pattern is similar, then this is most likely the clumsy attempts of a dropout, who was very lucky not to get caught.”

“Very good!.. Look at her clothes. No signs of a struggle, no blood traces. No sign that she was kidnapped and held somewhere. Bright clothing that is out of place in this weather. Whenever our victim was abducted, she had left the house for at least two or three days before the murder. So she is not from London.”

“Now the pose. The head faces the south. Palms pressed to the floor, but there was nothing there and below them. There are no runes, charms, or amulets, only scattered useless herbs. She was wearing a wedding ring; the ring finger of her left hand has a band of skin that is lighter than the rest of the hand. Silver earrings are not touched, as well as her other accessories, but only a ring was taken. This is not a murder out of jealousy, meaning that the killer was attracted by gold.” 

“Extraordinary,” John could not help but admire Holmes’s train of deductions.

“And your final conclusion, Mr. Holmes?” The commissioner sighed tiredly and prepared notes for the official entry of the verdict.

“You are looking for a middle-aged mage, I do not dismiss the possibility that it could be a very strong witch, but it is unlikely. Height - around my partner’s according to the nature and location of the runes on the walls. Magical powers uncertain, but the most pronounced ability that can be identified is the ability to make illusions. This is how he lures in his victims, of course. When there is a very powerful artifact absorbing power, and at the same time masking his presence. The murderer is almost impossible to predict, but he still made a mistake by taking the victim’s gold ring. I need a detailed list of the possessions of the first three victims and access to your files. I have no doubt that such crimes have already occurred 200 to 250 years ago.”

“Incredible.”

“Do you know that you say it out loud?”

‘Sorry.”

‘No, everything is fine…. Where is her purse?”

”There were no personal belongings,” Commissioner Gregson looked a bit confused.

“There should be a purse!” 

The darkness around Holmes went burgundy with splashes and started swirling. John suppressed the involuntary desire to follow the example of the Commissioner and take a few steps back. No longer paying any attention to them, the dark mage ran out of the room. His hurried footsteps reverberated through the empty floors, then there was the sound of a door slamming downstairs; and the house again fell back into cautious silence.

John decided to stay, taking advantage of the fact that the Commissioner was distracted and seemed to have forgotten his presence.

He had a vague feeling that he was missing something. John carefully knelt down and bent to the floor, gently blowing away dried verbena that was spilled around the head of the dead woman. Light particles rose into the air and hovered briefly as a golden shimmer, only to drift back back down onto their original locations. It…. It was interesting, those were the words that Holmes would definitely have used if he had observed this little demonstration.

John did not think that their murderer would have purposely scattered verbena, if he had known that one of its properties was sealing and keeping traces of magical creatures, and that these effects lasted for some time. He knew about these properties, because in the desert it was one of the easiest ways to check whether or not the sand elves were stealing their sweet supplies. He had learned about this attribute of verbena and a few other herbs from a merchant in one of his tours, and remembered them even to this day. However John did not know what magical creature would leave such a trail. 

 

(1) The Guide - any sufficiently powerful mage who can take some of the power of another magician, and redirect it into another spell. The effectiveness of the guide depends on the compatibility of the mages.

(2) Here this is used as an analogue of the yellow police tape at a crime scene.

(3) Sealing, as the name suggests, is the ritual with which you can seal strength in a certain subject, which needs to be strong enough not to fall to pieces from contact with elemental magic. The subject, as a minimum, must be enchanted.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears)
> 
> A lot of thanks go to [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) my great, cool beta!  
> If you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers andexplanations).
> 
> And, please, comment)) we will be glad to hear how our tandem is doing so far))) we try to make text better and better)))  
> Let me know what you think so far)) this chap was the harderst for me to translate so far because of all the descriptions and adjectives.
> 
> And now it has illustration)

The Registration Department occupied a whole building in the oldest part of London. High wrought iron fences, dark windows and gloomy architecture inadvertently gave the impression of a crypt. Cold threads of rain stretched from the sky to the earth as a glittering veil, covering the sharp edges and absurdly inappropriate buttresses of the building. But that did not help to get rid of the intrusive association with dead stone and the fragility of existence.

Leaden clouds that had covered the sky over the city since the day of the Ritual of reading the Runes finally burst apart with flows of water.

The rain caught John halfway to the gloomy building on *** Street, and he ducked under the first arch for cover, clinging to the cold wall. Shivering from the chill, he wrapped up in his light jacket and looked around - the rain did not seem like it would be stopping anytime soon.

Only now did he see a strange sculpture sitting on the arch that was giving him shelter: a predatory beak, raised webbed wings and powerful paws with huge claws. The magical element of architecture squinted its stony eye at him. While John and the stone monster curiously studied each other, water flowed from the ears and mouth of the statue, making John smile involuntary.

John bowed jokingly to the gargoyle and slowly stepped back under the rain, only to be soaked to the skin in an instant. However, that was nothing that could not be fixed with an elementary spell that would be very difficult to keep track of in the midst of other spells that ultimately had the same goal - to make the clothing and its owner warm and presentable.

The chill caused by the rain made his mind sharp, distracting him from his gloomy thoughts. After returning from the crime scene and eating a quick snack, he decided not to wait for Holmes and went to bed, but in the end he only tossed and turned on the comfortable mattress till midnight. The investigation disturbed him, making him doubt his decision not to inform anyone of his strange discovery at the crime scene. He could not prove it scientifically; he could not even cast simple spells officially yet. The vague anxiety upset his morning routine, so he had to hastily get ready in order to arrive at the appointed time in the Department of Registration.

At the entrance came a complication, and as result he had to endure the humiliating and, in his case, no longer required-because he was now in control of his magic-procedure of blocking unwanted Bursts. At least John had special permission for the Ministry’s tracking spell. He was led into the waiting room and left to get nervous and a bit bored while waiting for his turn.

His second Registration had been almost unmemorable; from the age of ten John had known that he would become a Healer. But he remembered his First Registration well: it had been when he was seven years old, and his parents had taken him to a small building on the outskirts of their provincial town.

The shack’s walls and faded windows had not suited the solemnity of the day, for which he had eagerly waited for the whole year. In the morning at home his family had begun preparations for the celebration. Mother had taken a porcelain set and a crystal punch bowl, kneaded the dough and sent John with Harry to hang colored paper lanterns at the windows.

John remembered even minor details such as the blue ribbons in the braids of little Harry, or the sunlight, which had tangled in the trees around their houses, beautifully painting the outdoor stairs with bright spots. How warm the west wind had been, and how he had excitedly breathed in the smell of herbs and flowers from his mother's garden. Everything around him had been filled with magic, and he had not just felt it, he had so very clearly and distinctly seen how magic had filled the world.

Thirty-one years ago he, John Hamish Watson, had gone through the first Registration of magical powers in his life, and had been happy to receive a new book of practical magic as a gift, already looking forward to the beginning of the school year- no longer in a small classroom at the local temple, but at a school.

Back then he did not think to divide magic into black and white; he had no idea how different the level of ability and power level of each person could be, and how changeable and different his own magic would turn out to be. He had no idea how strange and changeable his whole life would be. But the events of that one day, even its minor details, he remembered forever.

Now his Re-registration promised to be marked by nervousness and boredom. The only means of entertainment was to observe those few luckless mages, which, just like him, were unfortunate enough to have to go through the re-registration. On this unfriendly rainy London morning John had five people for company. And only one witch, old enough to be his mother and with grim face that discouraged him from even looking her way, varied their mostly male company. He was the youngest of them, too young, though, but not the exception to the rule.

The Re-registration wing seemed to be slumbering: not even a rare sound of rustling paper and scrolls, or quiet conversation could be heard. Only the silent Guards at the entrance and the echoing silence that even the breath of six people could not break proved otherwise . And there was only a weak feeling of magic, as it was being suppressed with the strongest artifacts. Spells could only be cast in strictly designated areas, and John was in full agreement with these precautions, although the whole sad situation was not very encouraging, and he was feeling uncomfortable with the continuing pressure on his magic.

There was no longer a glowing stream before his eyes, only the just barely visible glow of the auras of the other magicians. Even with his blocked magic and without any special crystals he could see how weak and exhausted they were, when John felt not just alive, but filled with ease, which can only be given by hope, and the belief that today, all would end well for him.

He had no misgivings; there were no signs of a negative outcome from his meeting with the faceless bureaucrat of the Ministry of Magic. He only had to be patient and get his card. And there in front of him a variety of possibilities opened up: restoring his Healer license, the ability to find a job, the ability to cast magic without regard to the Agents of the Ministry, but most importantly, the opportunity to begin to live again.

One of the doors opened silently, revealing one of the most beautiful witches whom he had ever seen. Having been on three continents he knew what he was talking about.

“Mr. Watson, follow me.”

John involuntarily straightened and squared his shoulders. It was hard to believe that a woman of such beauty would work as a normal secretary. Her hair was too well-groomed, her heels too high, her gait too confident, her glow of aura too strong. The corridor was too long, and the artifacts too powerful, making his sealed magicanxiously flutter – he had used the word “too” too many times.

John had not been familiar with Holmes for very long, but that had not prevented him from learning a thing or two - he tried not only to see and observe more, but also to draw logical conclusions. And here the only conclusion he could make was rather simple: he would not be meeting and having a chat with the staff officer, but he would be meeting with someone much more important and probably more dangerous.

“What’s your name?”

“Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?” Maybe he was out of practice, but no one could forbid him from flirting a little. In response he was awarded with a fleeting grin and further silence.

At least he had tried, John consoled himself, ogling the smooth curves of the witch walking in front of him without shame. He had forgotten the last time he had thought about something like that. The raids and movements between the bases did not even give an extra minute for even harmless flirtation, not to mention more. Adding in the time taken for his recovery and his settling in the new flat, it turned out that his dry spell had lasted for more than six months. And he was not sure he was ready for even something uncomplicated, not to mention serious in the near future. But still he was only a man.

They stopped in front of a simple door. Even in appearance it looked solid. Mighty oak boards were fitted tightly to each other, and the edges were covered with iron. A massive iron handle beckoned with dim coolness, asking to be touched, telling John to open the door and look on the other side.

John licked his dry lips, reaching out, but jerked his hand back like it was on fire; before him he now only saw the massive ornate cast handle. Then it disappeared, leaving nothing except for the door behind.

The world existed at a frantic pace and was constantly changing. John saw this as a gray ocean raged before him: cold waves with white caps of foam that licked at the oak door and broke apart helplessly into spray. He saw a vast desert: the golden sand dunes occasionally disturbed by dry, hot wind. Then the silence of the desert was broken by a deafening hubbub of birds, and all was drowned in the green of a forest. And now the door seemed to be so small compared to the giant trees with green crowns swaying majestically.

He saw endless expanses of meadows and fields; stiff spikes fought against the door and bounced off it. John saw a desert of frozen ice; a cold wintery expanse blinded with a white and unnatural glow. Other worlds peacefully floated by; below him, under his feet, unknown stars shone and planets circled on their axes.

He saw, and he heard how thunderstorms rattled over black rocks, over fire-breathing craters, over steaming lakes, streams of lava, water and over low, hot clouds of smoke and steam. A gray haze hid the mainland from view like a hot, blurry shroud. The rains eroded lava, carved ridges; stone walls collapsed and divided the lava flows. Everything sought the ocean. The shores were stained black with ash and dirt. The banks came and went, as they were eroded and built up again.

The crust of the planet burst. The water ran into the molten seams. The bed of the ocean was strewn with the ashes of the primordial crust. Where there had been land, there was now ocean. Where there had been the sea, continents now rose. Drops of rain fell from the sky into the sea and mixed with the salt water, and the water changed its color.

He watched and listened as the atmospheric layer thinned; he watched acid rain leaving muddy green stains, destroying impregnable stone cliffs, eternal mountains and changing the face of the earth. The earth shook, and groaned plaintively; the continents began moving, and the seas and the land changed their shapes. The ocean breathed, awakened from its deep sleep. A huge wave rose, devastating and merciless, sweeping away all the living things; it rolled across the planet, bringing purification. Nothing could withstand the crushing power; and together with the wave, elemental magic broke free.

The burning debris of distant stars fell from the sky and became dragons with golden wings, their scales flashing with fire; spraying sparks as they fell with a hiss into muddy waters or struck the solid earth and ruined all living things. He saw, and he heard the birth and the end of the world - of many worlds. Before his eyes, new stars were born and died. He witnessed the birth, rise and fall of civilizations and thousands of people while the magic continued.

There was no longer a dark corridor, or a beautiful witch, nor the door that had bewitched him. John lay on a floor flickering with a weak blue glow. The fading echoes of John’s magic were no longer restrained by the artifacts that were still disturbing the polished surface of many crystals, which were encrusted all over the floor of a spacious and unexpectedly bright room that he could now see clearly.

John heard quiet steps, but he could not find any strength left in himself to turn his head and see who approached him. The steps subsided, and the person stopped. An unfamiliar shadow fell over his face, blocking the dim light. Someone's careful hands froze on his neck, taking his pulse. The stranger smelled of darkness and vaults, but John was not afraid.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello-hello, my dears)
> 
> A lot of thanks go to [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) my great, cool beta!  
> As usual if you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers andexplanations).
> 
> And, please, comment)) we will be glad to hear how our tandem is doing so far))) we try to make text better and better)))  
> 

His body seemed weightless, like....

John tried to move, but the spell of rest, familiar to every Healer, lit up around him. Such spell also extinguished any extraneous sounds, making him focus on the wraith that surrounded him. Around him was a wonderful world. Rays of light made their way through the water, and John was surrounded by this beautiful illusion, watching the turquoise and blue spashes as if he was within an ocean of light.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

The beating of a giant heart, invisible and treasured, remaining in the most profound of memories, granting peace and calming silence. Security.

Thump. Thump thump. Thump.

He wanted to grab, snatch these few moments of peaceful quiet for a bit longer before he would have to face reality. John did not want to leave this deceptive depth, but he also had no idea how long he been in this healing sleep, and how serious his situation was. As soon as he began to think about the world outside of his safe cocoon, his obsessive anxiety began to destroy the skillfully created illusion.

Thump. Thump thump.

Thump.

The heartbeat began to die down, until John was not able to hear it at all. The illusion was finally dropped, and he was able to look around. The room was drowned in the shadows, so there was no way to estimate its size. Something like this was what John had expected from his surroundings from the start – dark and quiet. Built up for years while he was in the military, his instincts shouted that darkness could hide anything. Or anyone. At least, he did not feel any shackles limiting his magic. In fact, he could not feel anything at all.

His body felt clumsy and made of cotton. The spell allowed him to restore some of the energy lost after his major Burst, but he was still very weak. John struggled to sit up and stand from where he had apparently been resting for at least a day, which turned out to be a comfortable couch.

“Your recovery took two days, Mr. Watson.” The quiet and confident voice barely surprised him. The presence of another mage was expected and natural. What he did not expect was that his condition been monitored not by a Healer, but by a Necromancer. John shuddered. His past encounter with a Necromancer had not ended quite the way he had expected it to.

An expensive suit, a wedding ring, and manicured hands with beautiful long fingers. In the dim light John was not able to make out any facial features clearly, but the mage’s presence was vaguely familiar. And he was sure would never confuse a Necromancer with any other class representative. Their gloomy dark magic was difficult to be mistaken as something else.

Two days. The realization that he had fallen out of reality for two whole days was comparable to a magical vortex. The same feeling of helplessness, disorientation and the annoying inability to affect something affected him. Two days, and he was not even sure that anyone was worried about his absence. There was a faint hope for dear Mrs. Hudson; he tried not to think about Holmes.

The silence was not uncomfortable. John saw that he was studied carefully and with interest, but he was in a losing position on all fronts, so he did not dare to ask any questions as he sat in front of the Necromancer. A sense of danger and excitement itched under his skin, and he had not felt so ready to commit any desperate actions in a long time. He had almost nothing to lose, and if the Ministry truly had considered him a renegade, he would not have awoken in the inner sanctum, but instead in the hospital with a guard at the door of the chamber-if he was lucky. Or in prison, if he was unlucky.

“It’s a pity that we have to meet in such a circumstance, but it is dictated by necessity. Mr. Watson, please give me quite a bit of your time. And no, I'm afraid that you cannot refuse.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all, _former_ Healer Watson.”

“Then can we get straight to the point?”

Thin lips stretched into a pleasant smile, but bright eyes remained cold.

“What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?”

The question was not a surprise to him. John had realized that by dealing with the one and the only consulting dark mage, he had condemned himself to not only a lack of understanding, hostility and scorn, but also a future full of these kinds of meetings and dubious acquaintances.

“We have signed a contract of partnership. Information about this, no doubt, has been recorded in a proper register.”

“Unexpected, is it not?”

“Why am I here and not in the hospital?” Answering a question with a question was not very polite, but John decided to forget about etiquette for a while.

“When someone is trying to escape the attention of Sherlock Holmes, he has to learn to be careful. Hence, this place.” The stranger was quite a distance from John, but he still managed to push with his aura. “But you do not look scared.”

“You don’t look frightening,” here John was not very honest. And perhaps it only seemed so, but the stranger’s laughter sounded truly sincere. John really did not like to be a source of entertainment.

“Yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is another word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

But more than being laughed at, John did not like it when he was mocked. So he glared instead of replying.

“I’ll repeat my question. What connects you with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Nothing except the contract. I barely know him. We just met.”

“You have recently met, and he invited you to move in with him. Can we expect a joyful announcement at the end of the week?”

John frowned. The conversation had suddenly taken a strange turn.

“Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Holmes? I don’t think you are friends.”

“You're right. I’m his enemy. If you ask him, he would say...his archenemy . Sherlock does like to dramatize things.”

“Thank Gods you're above that,” quipped John. The situation began to resemble tragicomedy to him. And why should everything in his life now revolve around Holmes? It seemed now wherever he went, whatever he did - everything was bound to be associated with the dark mage.

Suddenly he felt sick, fighting the strong desire to jump up and leave. He needed time to think about everything carefully, to devise a strategy and develop a course of action that was best suited to the circumstances.

“An amazing phenomenon - a mage waiting for a Mark suddenly shows unprecedented potential. The Ministry of Magic, of course, would be very interested in this fact.”

“You do not look like an Agent.”

“I occupy a minor position in the Ministry.”

“Nowadays do all minor positions include a personal cabinet and hot witch secretaries?” The question was rhetorical, but he would have still been interested in hearing the answer.

“Some people are lucky, others - not. Speaking of luck- you know, I would be happy to pay you a large sum on a regular basis to make your life easier.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not a wealthy man. And I know that you need money.”

John began to feel worse as he listened to the words the man spoke, he could hardly force himself to concentrate on them. It was not a suggestion or a manipulation, but a very strong feeling of wrongness towards what was happening, as if he was being drawn somewhereelse instead.

“In exchange for what?”

“Information.”

John stubbornly pursed his lips. The circus. What was happening began to remind him more and more of the circus.

“Nothing special, nothing that would cause you ... inconvenience. Just tell me about Sherlock’s plans.”

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“But for many reasons, I would prefer that not to be mentioned to Sherlock. We have, as you would say, a complicated relationship.”

“No.”

“I did not mention…”

“Do not bother. I'm not going to agree. And if you're so concerned about his well-being, then it’s in your best interest that I get permission and be allowed to do legal magic.”

“You are setting conditions?” The archenemy of Holmes looked surprised. For the first time during their conversation his mask of indifference and calm cracked.

“And what does it look like?”

John continued to feel worse and worse. And if not for the protective barrier with a faded Healing Circle, in which he had been put for recuperation, still protecting him from any external influence John would have thought the necromancer was trying to force his will on him. Without any rituals, amulets and runes, with only sheer force of will. But magicians of such caliber had not been born in the UK for more than three centuries, and even the strongest of them in their time had not been able to accomplish such things without a Source.

“What did you give me? I feel strange,” John pressed his palms to his flaming cheeks. Something was not allowing him to concentrate, confusing his thoughts and spinning his magic in uncontrollable whirlwind.

“Oh!” The necromancer put his hands to his chin in a familiar gesture of prayer.

John’s magic swirled as a wild luminous flow, trying to break out of the circle. He fell back into the illusion of cool water, which refracted bright flashes of light as if it was an expensive crystal. Around him orange, green and blue flashes blazed. Crimson alternated with blue to immediately ignite with gold. This time there was no soothing beating of a giant heart, only an echoing silence in which he imagined he could hear Holmes’s voice.

“What…. What's happening?” John cried in silence as he tried to escape from the luminous darkness, but again and again he was drawn back to the bottom, in the depths where his magic glowed with light.

“... John. John…. John …” He could hear his name. Persistently and impatiently, someone was calling him. The voice became more insistent, until it rang in his ears like an alarm. John closed his eyes and did not even have time to cover his ears, or to get away from that call, as everything was suddenly over. Against his back he no longer felt a soft couch, just a hard floor.

John looked around, still not believing that he was lying in the middle of the living room at Baker Street, and not enclosed in a healing circle somewhere in the bowels of the Department of Registration. Holmes's face loomed as a white spot in front of his eyes. The gray eyes with hint of blue, that John only now noticed, were complacently looking at him.

“Merlin’s beard! You opened a portal for me!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hello-hello, my dears
> 
> It took some time but now we are finally finished with this chap (it has some theory about portals ^__^)
> 
> A lot of thanks go to [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) my great, cool beta!  
> As usual if you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers and explanations).
> 
> As always your comments are appreciated ))) and it's always nice to know that what we are doing with Samui-san is worth all the time and effort we spent  
> have fun reading) new chap already went for beting)))

Lying on the floor was uncomfortable, but now he had the opportunity to study the ceiling in the living room at Baker Street in detail. A strange dent of unknown origin just above him brought back memories of his small room in a student dormitory, which he had shared with two other neighbors. After another night of drinking, a similar dent had remained on their ceiling. As he gazed up at the ceiling, John also noticed that the cracks ran along the edges of the dent and from one corner of the ceiling to another for the first time.

“Very symmetrical,” John thought as he blinked white dust from the eyelashes. The dent was indeed in the form of an accurate oval, and rather deep, as if something heavy had made an impact there. 

He tried as best as he could to suppress his feelings of admiration, fear and mistrust, but the familiar surroundings did not hurry to change and expose another mirage, proving that he was not hallucinating. It was not just amazing; never before had he ever dealt with such a high level of skill and talent. Again and again he received confirmation of Sherlock’s genius. His partnership with this dark mage promised to be not just memorable and wonderful, but also very promising.

“No one has ever opened a portal for me (1),” John remarked, glancing at Holmes admiringly. The dark mage sat beside him as if nothing had happened; he had not even taken the time to shake off the chunks of plaster and dust that had landed on his dark hair and expensive suit. 

“I did not know it was possible to open a portal at home.”

His knowledge was limited to theory from the course about the theory of Multiple worlds, which he had signed up for to impress Maggie Rhodes, a sophomore from the nearby Faculty of Alchemy. And he had happily given it up when she had agreed to date him. What little he remembered came down to the fact that in the creation of any portal it was important to consider not only the rate of time and a lot of other nuances, but also the resonant frequency of the person’s brain who would pass through that open portal. The mere memory of hours spent in a stuffy auditorium looking over boring charts gave him a headache.

“That is the misconception at its root” Holmes folded his hands into the familiar gesture of prayer under his chin. “If you eliminate the most unpleasant consequences of opening a portal (2), the single difficult thing that remains - the fact that the portal, as well as the areas of its borders, is not stable over time. It took almost a day for all my calculations, and another day to create a pentagram. I think if you were in another world, it would have taken more time. And so, knowing that you had not left London, as well as your approximate location, opening the portal was not difficult.”

“Amazing. You are amazing.”

Sherlock smiled, flattered, and tilted his head slightly. It was strange to watch his embarrassment; it sat on Holmes like an ill-fitting suit. Any doubts John might have had were now confirmed, as he was now absolutely convinced that the dark mage was rarely received compliments or due recognition. It was rather depressing; even if his behavior was clearly in need of improvement, only a fool would deny the obvious genius and potential of Holmes.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“Sorry, what?” the unexpected change of subject disoriented John.

“I play the violin when I think. And sometimes I will not talk for days. Partners need to know the worst about each other.”

“Somehow I think that’s not the worst thing about you,” grumbled John. “And you usually ask about such things before inviting someone to live together with you.”

“You're right, but we will have time to get to know each other and work well together. Now tell me what happened during the Re-registration. And do not miss even the smallest details - what may be unimportant to you may prove to be vital information.”

John was not very eager to share his experience, even though he knew the cause of Holmes’s curiosity. So he tried, as detailed as possible, to describe the entire order of events starting from his sitting in line and waiting for his turn.

“In the end I woke up from a healing sleep in a strange place in the presence of a Necromancer. For a moment, I thought that I was finally and truly dead.”

“Necromancer?” Perhaps he was imagining things, but Holmes's voice sounded furious for a moment.

“A very powerful Necromancer, I must add” John decided to clarify. “At first I thought he was on the second stage (3), but something about him was still wrong. I cannot explain what it was….. Well, it was confusing.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Ermm… Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No!”

“Pity, we could have split it. Think about it more carefully next time.”

“Who is he?”

“Perhaps the most dangerous mage in your life, but at the moment he does not concern me … also, I had to take advantage of your artifact for the search spell, and for more power.”

And that would explain the odd dent in the ceiling. Of course, John was sorry to lose the artifact to which he had unwillingly become attached to, but it had been the only strong object containing his energy in the vicinity which could be used for the spell. John sat up and looked around.

“The runes are no longer glowing.”

The luminous lace of spells and runes that had pulsated with magic were gone, as there was no longer a protective barrier. But now, in the middle of the parquet floor an intricate pentagram blossomed like a bizarre flower, in which he now had the dubious pleasure of lying in.

“Although it was a great experiment, now I need help with rebuilding the barriers. It took almost all of the stored energy to enhance the pentagram. I'm afraid this apartment is now no better than your old flat. Although everything is not so bad, I was afraid that there would be a more pronounced smell of sulfur.”

“Of sulfur?”

“Well, of course. The pentagram, the smell of sulfur ...”

”…You would have also needed Black candles, a full moon and inscriptions made with the blood of virgins. Oh, Gods!” John could not help himself and chuckled at his joke. “I can assure you, I’m not a demon.”

“Could have fooled me,” Holmes smiled-not in his usual manner, but as if the smile was made of wax and fitted his face badly. However, it was a true smile.

“Wait, wait,” John stopped giggling and once again replayed their conversation in his mind. Only now did he fully begin to realize what had happened. He finally felt wonderful, and his head was clear. He ran his eyes over the pentagram, and the untidy room with piles of books and papers piled in heaps near the seats again. If earlier he had seen some semblance of order in the room, it was now gone, while chaos caused by Holmes’s activities reigned.

“It will take some time before we will be safe here, but together we can handle this faster,” Holmes, as if nothing had happened, continued his argument. “Our joint efforts ...”

“Sherlock!” It had been a long time since he had last felt such an uncomfortable awareness of the consequences of an action. John rose from the floor, agitated, and shook the white dust and plaster off of himself. “If what you just performed was the summoning ritual, this means that there are now a horde of Agents of the Ministry heading here. Furthermore we do not even have the advantage of protection and I’m an unregistered mage! Oh, great Gods! Did you ever think about any of the consequences?”

Their conversation was interrupted by the hurried steps of Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done this time?” The elderly witch looked really upset, nodding toward the stairs. Her question coincided with a warning call from the skull. Immedietly after the cluttered room was filled with grim mages. Now, as there were no longer any wards, the mages were free to step over the threshold without asking for permission first.

It was difficult to confuse the agents of the Ministry with someone else-not when every mage or witch was dressed in black uniforms with the glowing red coat of arms belonging to the Ministry of Magic. They spread out quietly, and methodically began to search.

Among new faces he was glad to see a familiar one. Inspector Lestrade quietly and intently discussed something with an irritated Holmes, whose aura sparked off discontent.

“What is he doing here?” Sherlock protested, looking dangerously at agent Anderson. The ensuing war of words left no doubt that Holmes was not only not of a high opinion of employees of the Ministry, he did not possess any respect for them.

Inspector Lestrade was also not happy with what was happening and just sat in a chair, while John, with mild interest, watched all the bustle.

“What's going on here?” John innocently asked the Inspector.

“The search for the illicit possession of dark artifacts,” politely explained Lestrade. He carefully examined John from head to toe, but did not comment on either his appearance or the change in his aura.

“Are you serious?” John could not help but smile, a little surprised. “And the real reason?”

“This is the official reason of the Ministry. The unofficial reason - he is suspected of concealing evidence and the unauthorized summoning of the souls of the victims in Gregson’s case. This is the art of Necromancy, for which he did not get permission to perform. Additionally, this strong Burst of magic that Holmes has yet to explain will make him anwer to the Commission, and this time he will not be able to get out of it, even with his connections.”

“Summoning souls?” A bad feeling stirred inside John. He knew that he had agreed to work with a dark wizard-in the sinister sense of the word ‘dark’-but certainly not with a Necromancer. He was absolutely sure, and now tried not to feel disappointed. “Do you really have a reason to think so?”

“No,” Holmes suddenly appeared to be very close. He loomed over John in his usual manner of dominance. “They have nothing on me.”

And the unsaid “they would find nothing”" hung significantly between them, giving John little assurance despite the optimism and confidence in Holmes’s words. 

“John, I’m clear,” Holmes’s pale gray eyes looked at him with a strange expression. “See for yourself. All this time I had been busy with the creation of the portal.”

“I believe you ... and thanks for the help, by the way, but without permission, I cannot legally do magic, and thus cannot help you. And I can only get my license after Re-registration. Sherlock, it's very important to me.”

“This can be solved.”

“I do not doubt it, but I do not want you to be obliged to your patrons in the Ministry for me. In addition, I left my belongings and my phone. So I'll go right back, and you will have to deal with all of this,” he waved his hand around him. “I just need you to distract their attention so I can quietly slip away.”

 

 

(1) Multiple worlds - they are the result of the manifestations of various developments of the same world. As the world in fact is one, and the other worlds are only the differences of its development, in the areas where there are no differences between these worlds - they intersect. These intersections are used when you create a portal; this is also manifested in the natural occurrence of portals. When passing through the portal to worlds with the same rate of time the one that the person is passing from it is even possible not to notice anything, but if the time rate is different in the other world - there are a bunch of unpleasant effects;

(2) This is a series of physical effects. The first condition is that the portal must be formed from a material which has no, or a very low potential for progress or development So the portal must be made of static material Such formations occur in a rather complex configuration of variable electromagnetic fields. However, such configuration only allows infinitely existing elementary particles through the plane of the portal. The brains of most people are resonantly tuned to this frequency, which erases the information from the lower parts of the brain - the consequences of this can be coma and amnesia.  
The next condition - is the need to go through the portals that connect the space with different rates of time in a certain way – there must be a perpendicular movement between the portals. If there is any angular movement instead of a perpendicular one, then the “field” forming a portal creates a vortex motion (also called the "meat grinder" – due to the name you can imagine what would become of you while going this way through a portal). There are also more unpleasant and deadly effects (such as "Mouth of the Dragon" and so on. You can find and read theory about portals on the internet).  
In our case, Holmes opened a simpler kind of portal, since he knew that John was in their world. Plus for speed and ease he also used a summoning ritual;

(3) Here John is referring to the stages of Decomposition, which are characteristic for the Necromancer class. There are 5 steps in total. The very first of which is manifests through changes in the appearance and aura (and which can be applicable to Sherlock in some way as he is a Dark mage; in the text there are references to it through John’s thoughts about Sherlock’s general appearance and aura). With the degree of change in appearance and aura, one can usually identify the practitioner Necromancer and accordingly, the stagethat he\she is on. Also, John used the colloquial form of referring to stages (by simply calling it a “stage”).  
Why stages of Decomposition? Because the magician, depending on the power level, capabilities and the complexity of the spell, begins to lose their human exterior while practicing Necromancy, rotting from the inside, because the body quickly exhausts its resources. And, of course, because Necromancy is associated with death. The fifth and final stage is becoming a Leach. So a Necromancer becomes undead instead of dead. To do this, the "Ritual of eternal Night" must be carried out, during which the magician makes human sacrifices, enters his\her soul in a phylactery, which is a glass vial that contains the magical essence of a being, then dies and is then reborn as a full Leach.  
The transition to the third stage and above is a criminal offense.  
A small note about Sherlock. Despite the fact that he is a strong Dark Magician, his practice has always been more to do with Alchemy, therefore, despite the apparent evidence that he must be actively practicing Necromancy, in fact he is not. Only sometimes does the sphere of his interests intersect with Necromancy, but even then he has all the right permissions to practice some arts of Necromancy. But in the end, he is just a really great Dark mage.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello-hello, my dears
> 
> We finally finished this chap!!!!
> 
> A lot of thanks go to [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) my great, cool beta!  
> As usual if you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers and explanations).
> 
> As always your comments are appreciated )))   
> and it's always nice to know that what we are doing with Samui-san is worth all the time and effort we spent  
> Soon there will be side story posted - Sherlock's POV))hehehhe)))))

The evening city, washed by rain, met him with fog and dampness; the cool air chilled his exposed skin. The gloomy gray sky hung, unfriendly, over his head discouraging him from looking upward. It was presumptuous of him to expect that after the past few days spent within the walls of the Registration Department the weather would decide to please him with warm sun. 

 

But even the cool wind did not prevent him from enjoying every deep breath, filled with magic that was free from spells and the shackles of runes. At that moment, to him, there was nothing more beautiful and wild. He had always wondered how all the glass, concrete and metal around him could still pulsate with the same pure energy that was present in the trees, rocks, water and earth.

 

John stood at the curb wondering what he should do. Several abandoned cars with red marks on their black polished sides huddled at the curb. The open doors of all the cars more than eloquently showed the speed at which the agents of the Ministry had rushed to Baker Street. John wearily looked around; there was not even a hint of a cab, only fog and empty streets. Now he would be more than glad to have a ride in one of ministry cars, but only as an ordinary passenger and not a criminal. 

 

Two days in healing sleep had helped him to regain his strength, but had not given him any desire to get to the Registration Department on his own two feet. John did not expect to catch a cab immediately, but luck was on his side - from the mist, as if it was salvation, emerged a gig. It stopped beside him, an enticing comfort and shelter from the chilly weather of London.

 

“Where to, gentleman?”

 

John raised his head, surprised by the familiar phrase. The driver looked at him with barely any interest. Under the bonnet that he wore, an elderly puffy face with bushy eyebrows and a big nose stood out under a thin slit of a mouth, from which protruded a cheap cigarette. Smoke billowed out of it in beautiful curls and looked more like the smoke exhaled by small Asian dragons than tobacco. 

 

“To the Registration Department, please. And as quickly as possible.”

 

As soon as John reached out and touched the door, he fell instantly into a trap. For one long heartbeat time seemed to stop, before immediately flying back into a gallop as the spell unwound. John looked down at his feet and froze. Under him darkness swirled; it greedily grabbed at his shoes and reached out for his legs. A skillful illusion had hidden the dangerous runes from him, and even now, knowing that he was caught, John could hardly distinguish any familiar characters or identify them from any familiar spell. 

 

“Sit back and relax, we have a long road ahead of us.”

 

Unable to resist, John, like a puppet on strings, jumped on the seat and sat, frozen with an unnaturally straight back and a stiff facial expression. There was no one who would pay attention to his strange behavior, and he could only grind his teeth in frustration and his own negligence. He had just been kidnapped off the street, and what irony - right under the noses of the agents of the Ministry.

 

Several times he tried to speak, but only silently opened his mouth. His magic thrashed about, held down by the spell while they sped past both familiar and unfamiliar signs and shop windows, rare cars and even more rare passersby. 

 

The only thing left to him was to repeatedly go over in his mind the possible options for his escape. It was unlikely that Holmes or anyone else would have caught onto his abduction. Especially not when the dark mage had opened a time portal for him, and received criticism in return. Moreover, there was no longer any stored energy or artifact available to allow for another portal to be opened again. No, he had to get out on his own, without relying on anyone.

 

John cursed silently. He now understood why cabman’s greeting had seemed familiar to him - the driver had already picked them up earlier. How blind they had been, when all this time the killer was so close. Really, who would pay attention to a gig Certainly, the last of his sacrifices must have been stolen in the same manner directly from the busy streets. Now he himself was just one of the few people who were headed somewhere in this dull evening, another lone passenger in the gig, which took him away from the lighted streets and further into the darkness.

 

The familiar streets were replaced by dark, rarely illuminated suburb. When they turned onto a side road and stopped at the curb, the only buildings he could see were some ruins in the gray dusk.

 

John had not expected to see dilapidated old ruins as the final destination of their journey. An abandoned castle or warehouses maybe, but not ruins. As soon as he left the gig and followed his abductor, it was like scales fell from his eyes.

 

Illusions had hidden a long, low building without windows - its roof, covered with red tiles, had gaping holes in some places; the walls were bare, the last peeling flakes of paint almost gone. The structure twisted like a stone serpent among strange trees with red bark and yellow leaves. John had heard about them, but had never thought that he would ever see them firsthand, especially in London. Extracts of their leaves could enhance almost any potion, so he was not surprised that a small grove of these trees was helping to maintain a spell of such strength and power and to hide this place away from prying eyes. He did not notice any other homes nearby, and the hope that he could be seen by at least someone finally left him.

 

“This is a bad place,” John winced; his throat was sore, as if he had not spoken for several days. “It steals the light...”

 

He did not know why he had said it, but this strange place terrified him, causing the desire to be as far away from it as possible. But here, he really could change nothing. He was still a puppet yanked along on invisible strings by a strange spell, forcing him to move against his will.

 

“Mister, is afraid that it would sap the light from him?” His captor raised his broad brow, theatrically releasing thick smoke from his nostrils.

 

“And should I be?”

 

“Worry not, I won’t allow that.”

 

“That is certainly encouraging,” grumbled John. Suddenly he was overcome by apathy. Perhaps he should fear this strange place, not just his kidnapper, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “But why would you kidnap me?”

 

“…Mister is not Sherlock Holmes, but I could not resist.”

 

“Sherlock Holmes? What about him?”

 

“He has a fan. This Holmes fellow has captured the attention of my client, and the next victim was supposed to be him. So much power, and such great potential-it would have been nice to feast on him.”

 

“You have a master?” 

 

“I do not belong to anyone. No one!”

 

Perhaps John should not anger the man, but it was almost impossible to resist. The familiar feeling of excitement and danger pushed him to commit yet another folly. Well, he would not be John Watson, who had volunteered for the war, if he did not try to learn as much as possible even in such grim circumstances.

 

Such a revelation worried him, suggesting unfavorable thoughts. Before him was a performer, cruel and dangerous, but not the one who was really pulling the strings behind the killings of random mages and witches. So far, only his sudden abduction had not been planned, and he hoped to take advantage of that fact.

 

Through the dark door, they entered the spacious hall as if stepping into another world. The room was unusual, and it was not only because of the stuffed wild animals, strange weapons and old yellowed skulls – all of these seemed unnatural and alien even in this gloomy deserted house.

 

John, with seasoned eyes, looked around: some stuffed animals of species that he had never seen before. Collection was rich and, judging from the skulls, carefully kept and preserved with spells, had been gathered for many years.

 

More than anything his attention was drawn by a collection of human heads. He could not help but look into the dead eyes, wanting to know what only those that had long gone into the darkness would know. But the heads remained silent, and did not hurry to reveal their secrets.

 

Spreading around a strong smell of cheap tobacco the cabby quietly and reverently told him the story of each head, enjoying the presence of a new audience. While John himself sadly thought that he did not want to be part of this terrible show.

 

John considered a head with an uncertain past, which could not even be remembered by his captor - the head of a white woman, for an especially long time. The dried-up ears were still decorated with gold earrings with black stones; silky copper hair flowed like a shimmering waterfall from the skull. He looked at the hair, gray lips and staring dead eyes and thought that in the past this head had sat on top of a body, with hands and feet. The hostess of the head had most certainly loved, suffered, hated, feared ... and now, on a whim, was gathering dust on the table.

 

The farther away from the entrance they went, the smaller the number of the remaining heads became, until in this strange excursion they stopped near some skulls. Old, yellowed skulls were covered with a thin layer of wax. Its light, characteristic smell mixed in with the smell of dust and desolation, and not even the most powerful spells could erase the traces of the past years.

 

Trying to maintain a visible serenity John dutifully moved his legs, following his abductor. Intuition told him that he was not a regular, even if was an unexpected victim, but that did not mean that something less awful was in store for him. Several times he-although unsuccessfully-tried to throw off the spell, but it continued to firmly keep him on a leash, not allowing his magic to break free from the imposed shackles.

 

One dark corridor was replaced by another, then a passage and arches, and he knew that they had been travelling down deeper and deeper. Sometimes the darkness was diluted by the weak glow of crystals, and John could see stones blackened by time. Breathing in the moist cool air, he thought of dungeons, abandoned catacombs and crypts, and such thoughts did not inspire any optimism.

 

There was no point in asking where they were going; he was led to a particular particular destination. And when feeling of the sticky wetness on his skin gave way to warm air, and when soft light loomed at the end of the next corridor, it became apparent that they were close. He unwillingly walked faster, no longer resisting the effects of the other’s will, only to freeze in shock at the entrance.

 

The cave was huge, simply immense, and littered with gold coins, bullion, precious stones, ornaments, cups and utensils. John had never seen so much wealth gathered in one place. This treasure was illuminated by eight huge torches that gave sickly yellow light.

 

The touch of a rough palm to his neck caused him to flinch. Unable to escape, John had to endure that almost gentle caress, until he was pushed inside.

 

As soon as he clumsily tumbled into the cave the spell eased, and his once again unrestrained power spilled out, dissatisfied with incarceration and inactivity, filling the area all around John with a bright searing light. Disturbed gold in sparkling heaps moved, ringing, knocking John down and swamping him with coins.

 

“Haha! I knew it!” Somewhere from his side rumbled a low, deep voice that could never have belonged to a human.

 

John leaned back against the cold shifting pile of coins and was afraid to move. Before him no longer stood a strange cabman with bushy eyebrows and a cheap cigarette. Instead, with whitish, almost blind eyes, a huge decrepit dragon looked at him. 

 

“You will be my most precious treasure.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello-hello, my dears!!!  
> Oh…. It took me so long to finish this chap. Sorry, my dears!
> 
> My great beta [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) was very buzy and was able to do only part of this chap. So I asked my super sweet friend [Kiterie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiterie/pseuds/Kiterie) to help me out (because as sad as it is – dear [ Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) was very-very buzy)
> 
> As usual if you have any question about the universe and can't find answers to them in the 2 part (Some explanation or a Brief description of the universe "Ashes") feel free to ask. I'll be happy to give you answers and explanations).
> 
> The side story with Sherlock's POV was translated long ago (as well as two remaining chapters of Ashes) and [Samui san](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Samui_san/pseuds/Samui_san) even started to edit it but well))) eahhh))) I hope [Kiterie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiterie/pseuds/Kiterie) will help with that as well))))
> 
> As always your comments are appreciated)))

On the biggest pile of treasure rested a huge old dragon; his gray mustaches occasionally moved with the rhythm of his breathing. He was very old; the once mighty wings were sprawled over gold like gray-white cloths, armor bone plates occasionally parting and exposing pale skin littered with white, old scars.

After recovering from the first shock John could not help, but admire the ancient creature. He was sure that they had become extinct a long time ago and now, realizing he was wrong, he wondered if he was looking at the last one. This fact, of course, did not diminish the dragon’s guilt, but John was not in a hurry to judge the creature’s acts from human point of view.

He had already spent a few hours watching the other’s sleep, and was now exhausted from boredom and unsure of what to do. All the spells he had already tried had crumbled in the middle of casting, forcing each time the treasures around him to shine even brighter. Even with his great desire to get away from this place and the sleeping dragon, he was unable to step through the dark opening into which he had been so unceremoniously shoved into earlier by his captor. 

After the first thirty minutes in the cave then boredom overwhelmed his sense he tossed a large gold coin at the dragon. The moment it left his hand he froze, but it merely bounced unceremoniously off a scale in the middle of it's head. The dragon didn't so much as twitch. John stood, the movement awkward due to the way the heaps of gold shifted under him. Still nothing. John made a break for it through the loud, ringing heaps of gold, running and sliding for exit. He smacked into an invisible barrier, disappointment flooding him, with his goal so close.

He threw spell after spell at the barrier. And each crumbled in the middle of casting, the treasures around him shining brighter with each attempt. After the ninth attempt he threw this venture out as hopeless and gave up the idea of escape.

Tired, cold, and seriously hungry John stared at the dragon and the endless mountains of glittering treasures. Several hours of only doing that added exhaustion to the boredom.

Then from the nostrils of his strange captor came thick, hot smoke and slowly the mouth filled with huge, gleaming teeth opened wide in a yawn. Noticing the dragon's eyelids parting ever so slightly, his curiosity once again overrode his caution. The same curiosity that made him contact Holmes and then work with dark mage. Insensibly John slid down the mounds of gold, closer to the frightening snout, deliberately putting himself in line of sight of one large opened eye. 

“I know why you killed all those people,” The somewhat more sensible part of his brain told him to shut up, but John reasoned if he was meant to be eaten immediately he would not still be sitting on an uncomfortable golden heap.

“We are all mortal,” the gray dragon began to think aloud. A couple of hours of sleep made him look more alive and he did not seem quite so decrepit. “I'm dying ... It’s so cold here. And death comes sooner or later for all. Human should not blame me for wanting to prolong my life.”

John could not help but remember how he had prayed to all the Gods known to him, dying on the hot sand in a foreign country. Disturbed by his memories, his magic throbbed, making the treasures around them shine brighter.

"You're the only one or..." he really wondered if that was the case, "are there any other dragons?" John had a lot of questions, but he was not sure if he would have a chance to ask them all.

“There are few, very few, but we exist.”

“How long can your kind live?”

“A very long time. Every year lived is another drop taken from the cup of my life scales. Soon this cup will be dry…”

John froze; the other’s memories enveloped him for a moment: a strong young body with powerful wings ripped through the air like a knife. It was nice to be aware of himself as a master of the skies, but the momentary vision almost immediately disappeared. John forced himself to relax and shivered, trying to warm his hands in his jacket pockets.

“I know human also feels the cold … the pull of the grave... But he is young, full of strength and energy, and can deal with it, and I am not...”

“You need someone else's magic and life force to extend your life. But I do not understand. You could have chosen more powerful and gifted magicians than those that were .... You did not choose them, they were chosen for you, right?” John shifted, then walked over to large chest and sat down, thinking. Sherlock Holmes was not the only one who could build chains of logic. Of course, the way he always did it like no one else, was truly beautiful and exciting. In addition, John had spent several extremely boring hours studying the cave and glimmers of treasure as something to do.

The old dragon roused and brought his huge head towards John; he was struck in the face with a wave of hot air, but the great beast just snorted and moved away.

“That's right, human is right. Dark man gave me a powerful artifact in exchange for someone else's death. I have no power now to hunt as before, so when he found me and offered a deal I could not refuse.”

John frowned; his arms and legs were cold. Despite the apparent heat, it was chilly in the cave.

“Who is this dark wizard? He has a name?”

”That I cannot tell to human.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“Human shone so brightly. As the rarest jewel that I could not resist.”

John could not help, but remember the conversation by the fireplace at Baker Street. Then Holmes had also mentioned his luminous magic and aura. It was irrational, but thoughts of the dark mage helped to inspire him. The fact was that now they were under contract, and it could be used to his advantage, if he had no other choice. John was poorly versed in the intricacies of the bureaucracy, but even he knew that now in any magical transaction his word was considered legitimate again though it always had to be paired with Holmes'. They both had to agree to seal any contract, which was not always easy, but their words bound together carried a weight his alone could not have, more proof that in their partnership John gained more.

“Why does my magic behave so strangely here?”

“Human does not see, but the light within him, it devours the body and soul. My treasures just pull it out. Without this buffer human will quickly burn.”

The dragon flicked its tail on a pile of gold coins and it loudly scattered.

“All these treasure can belong to human. All this may be his. Human will protect and increase wealth,” the dragon’s voice sweetly trembled. “And be able to become immortal with me.”

John could hardly believe in such words. He felt great; unlike before his power was obedient to him, despite the fact that he could not use the same Balance he had once had. Only such a strong creature like a dragon could hold back and restrain him now. Even with his meager knowledge of dragons John remembered that they were not only the most powerful beings, born from primitive magic, they were also the very First. Concentrated elemental magic encased in a shell of flesh and blood. Neither man nor any other magical creature could be compared with the masters of the skies.

Therefore watching as the old dragon moved clumsily around, John involuntarily felt pity and regret. What had the thirst for gold and desire to live forever done to the once proud and majestic creature. Even just in passing the other’s memories that John saw spoke about the power and freedom, now however, there remained virtually nothing.

He was seriously disturbed by that unknown dark mage, who could so deftly not only get closer to such an ancient creature, but also manipulate its greed. John could only wonder why they took such random victims. There was also Holmes, who had attracted others’ attention. That John understood. The one of a kind consulting dark mage was able to make a lasting impression, and moreover, was very powerful, so no surprises the similarities were more than a bit disturbing. 

“I want to make a gift to human. Human chooses what he wants, he can take all.”

John raised his eyes distracted from heavy hesitation with such an unusual proposal. Here somewhere was obviously a trick; no dragon would voluntarily agree to give up even a single coin of his treasures.

“I do not want any treasure and wealth. Just let me go.”

“What would human choose? Dragon’s head slumped on its gold, ignoring John’s response.

John stood up and with curiosity began to move from one pile of jewels to the other, but touched nothing. He saw nothing new or interesting; he was not attracted by coins or shimmering stones. He never chased wealth, otherwise he would never have connected his life with the army, so now John could wander among all that treasure for a long time with no result, obviously, and the dragon realized that too. He squirmed and angrily thrashed his tail.

“What does human want? I offer untold riches. Without them, without me human will crumble to ashes,” dragon rumbled with displeasure. “I offer immortality.”

“You offer me immortality and depend on handouts from another human.”

“Human will voluntarily obey me or end up like all the others.”

Around them a magical whirlwind began to spin; it was the result of the collision of John’s desire to defend his freedom and the desire of the ancient dragon to get a new trophy. Alien fury was blindly rushing, striking the cave vaults. It almost knocked him down with the glittering splashes of colorful swirls. John pressed himself to the floor trying to make himself as small as possible, and defended his head and face with his jacket’s lapel, but still it was painful when coins and ingots were thrown at him. He felt like under the clothing purple bruises were forming.

The prospect of subjection to the dragon did not seem more attractive than being completely exhausted and dying. He urgently needed to think of something, while his head did not become yet another trophy in horrifying collection. He had to offer something from which it was impossible to refuse.

“Deal!” John tried to shout above the ringing clatter. “I want a deal!”

The wind stopped abruptly and no longer supported by the old dragon's magic, the whirling gold fell with a deafening sound. Falling from a height, something heavy struck John painfully on the shoulder reminding him of his injury. His back and hands were showered with coins and stones. John decided to get out of the pile only when last sound subsided leaving the room in sudden, absolute silence.

The dragon was breathing heavily, letting go bluish smoke from its tired lungs that smeared its shape like a whitish cloud.

“I spent too much collected power on human. Hope he won’t disappoint.”

“Oh, you won’t refuse my offer,” John smiled unpleasantly. “Holmes in exchange for an artifact of the dark mage. He was necessary to you from the very beginning, and I can bring him to you.”

John did not expect that he would be able to know the name of the mysterious dark mage standing behind the murder. As he strongly suspected the dragon was simply bound by an oath of nondisclosure. For sure he could hardly bargain for his own freedom, not when he had learned so much. Asking for the artifact was comparable to illumination; with this he hoped to lull the vigilance of old dragon and to gain time.

Maybe involving the dark mage was too risky from his side, but Holmes was already associated with the case. They were also partners and John could really use his help.

“Human offers an interesting deal. I agree.”

“Then let’s fasten our agreement.”

Dragon turned over heavily and began to shrink in size, going back to his human form. The illusion was perfect. Now, knowing what to look for, John noticed almost no glaring nuances of the other’s appearance. Not surprisingly nobody paid attention to a random cabbie; clever charms were meant to not only make to look away, but was made to immediately forget what was seen. Even standing in front of and looking at the pale face with bushy eyebrows John found himself thinking that he wanted to look past, as if his eyes slipped from inconspicuous traits and refused to linger.

He had only to reach out to touch the hot rough palm and the air around them shuddered and rippled. Suddenly, everything went dark, as if on top of them someone had thrown a dense veil, muting and hushing everything. Magic froze, sealed in chains with flashing and fading words. Those broke out between them and scattered with green sparks, preventing the completion of the ritual.

“Human wants to deceive me?” the shaking hands became painful, and John involuntarily clenched his teeth, fighting the urge to pull away his hand.

“Not at all.”

A simple touch gave him access to the dragon’s own magic, like a new source had been opened for him. John had to do only one spell but he had to be sure it will work. He would never be able to call a messenger as the agents of the Ministry did, but when a snow-white crow landed on his shoulder, he believed that he could turn the tide in his favor.


End file.
